"What fire does not destroy, it hardens” ~ Oscar Wilde I watch the flames grow closer to my person, almost emulating the movements of a dancer. My body feels tethered to my comfortable mattress, the heat from the fire burning into my skin is comparable to a molten chain strapping me down to endure an inescapable fate. My death is almost poetic, almost justified in some cruel, unusual way because I wish I could leave, but I can’t get up, not even if I tried. “Build a man a fire, and he’ll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.” ~ Terry Pratchett The voluminous flames are leading me in a dance, gripping at my wrists so tight that they turn red and flake, almost endlessly twirling me around. What once was my living room, a plain red couch and wooden coffee table, has been transformed into a golden ballroom with guests and waiters alike present. They linger, though never still. Fire is my dance partner, the one who leads me along to the frenetic Baroque Music being played from a pitch black piano in the corner of the grand hall. I am pirouetted around and around, until I can’t take it any longer, though I have to endure, or suffer the wrath of my leading man. “Anger is like fire. It burns all clean.” ~ Maya Angelou I don’t want to, in fact I can’t leave. Despite the feverish dancing I’ve created in my delusions, I stay perfectly still, chained down, waiting for a savior. Fire leans to me, my skin is reddened and crisp, my once hair has nearly burned away, the ash leaves me smelling pungent. My clothes are in tatters. I hear the fire whisper something in my charred ear, and all of a sudden, the dream dissolves. I’m back in my dilapidated living room, still catatonic on the flaming couch. What does the fire whisper to me? It asks if I want to keep dancing. And I say yes. OOC: Killian Hazzard is NOT dead. This is a recent story about when his house caught fire and he thought that he would die.
