Running. Wildly thrashing through the rubble like a fish that had been discarded on the sand. I could see the beams of angry red and cold blue sweeping back and forth. It was unnerving, being hunted like I was some kind of dangerous animal, but at the same time it was such a rush. I could feel the familiar tingling in my feet and legs as the adrenaline began to flow, and I could smell the smoke of seven other memories. My parents had been killed in a fire much like the one the cops were now trying to find the source of...but they would never find it. I had been tossed around from foster families to youth homes like a lot of dirty laundry. And they had all burned.
Sam and Lindsay Jones were the two burn victims who were, by now, unidentifiable laying in the ashes of what used to be a two story victorian. I don't know where the people in this system get off, sending a fifteen year old home with an alcoholic and a crack whore. "Oh well, none of that matters now." I spoke to myself as I sat down at the top of a junk heap. I was a safe distance from the house now, but I could still see the smoke. I looked down to see a ladybug crawl across the toe of my scuffed up sneaker. "None of that matters, because no one is ever going to hurt me again." I gingerly touched my bruised and swollen jaw. Looking back up to the smoke in the distance I reached into my pocket and grabbed it's only contents.
An old matchbook.
Without another thought, I threw it as hard as I could and started walking towards the woods.
