Fire.

- - December 2016 - Story of the month- -Dancing. Flames are mystically dancing around me as they gradually begin to engulf my soul. How did I get here? How did my life fall to this? So much has led up to this moment of despair. Trapped beneath the rubble's hold, there is nothing that I can do to escape from the ever advancing flames. -- Cover by @Lady Panda --

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1. Who am I? Does it matter to you?

To whomever this may concern,


Even as I write these words, they ring hollow. My mistakes... no, my choices began this and because of me, the war was lost or maybe on your side, it was won. I see now, I see the truth but it is too late for forgiveness, it is too late for repentance or redemption because what I've done is in the past and the future will fall because of it. I never asked for this; I never wanted this life but a series of misguided decisions had thrust me into a life built on lies and false truths. I take the blame; I accept that everything that has happened is my fault but the damage had already been inflicted. The consequences have already passed by and for that, I am truly sorry.


The only way that I can describe myself is to say that I am like glass; my solid exterior hides how fragile and breakable I really am. I may seem strong but on the inside, I am hollow and brittle to the touch. The scratches and scars that I gather stay with me for the rest of my life, however long that may last. I am a warrior yet to be broken by the tide of war...


Or so I pretend...


On June the 25th, 2201, I, Scarlett Sterling chose the wrong side in the conflict. I believed them when they told me I could save lives; I believed them when they told me I had chosen well. So I worked for their cause, convincing myself at every corner that I was doing the right thing by not turning my back on it all. I created and designed weapons for my side to use; they fired the guns, but the blood was on my hands and on my conscience. I never imagined the carnage and the bloodshed on the battlefields that were a direct result of my actions.


In the aftermath, the streets were covered in ice and blood as storms dominated the night sky. Only stillness and silence remain after the battle. Almost half the population is dead because of me and my weapons. I am a herald of death himself. I am a poison slowly lacing its way into the earth and seeping into the sky. I am the gun to slaughter my people.


So who am I?


Does it matter to you?

No, because I will be dead long before you read this. Just pretend that it is a story, because are we all not stories in the end? Our lives and our legacies are just words, words gone within a moment. A life reduced to a summer seems like such a waste. So much love and sorrow is lost as we slowly forget the past and obsess with our own pain and joy.


In the end, do we really care? When the dust settles we rebuild and try to forget the conflict which took our loved one's lives, focusing on the future instead of the past. A book once finished is finished forever; a plot once read is original no more. A life once lived is over forever. They remain in our memories but in reality, they are gone.


So I’m not a hero, not to myself anyway. To the side that I fought for, I was their saviour and the hero who had carried them to victory and had given them the ammunition and weaponry to eliminate all who stood in their way.

But I’m not a hero. I never will be.


So who am I?


Does it matter to you? No, because I will be dead long before you read this. I have to destroy my weapons; I have to destroy them all no matter what the cost. As long as they are still out there, then whatever deaths have plagued my world are my own fault.


Then maybe, then finally, I can be at peace.


Helena Coleman.

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