Board Thread:Series Discussion/@comment-25754540-20150419180916

((This is probably gonna be heavily improved upon later, but whatever. I'll post it for now.))

My name is Pierrick Cynesige Franklin. And as I wake up in the middle of the night, I can only hope that it won't be engraved on my tombstone.

I quickly glance around my room. Red. Red. Red. More red. Flames lick at the walls, at the curtains, at my sheets, hastily thrown off by my kicking in the middle of the night.

There's not enough time for me to get out of here in one piece, and I know that.

I also know that this fire isn't natural- I can hear hoots and hollers outside my bedroom window. I bound across my bed and look out- people in black leather, people in white leather, people with pistols, and people with molotovs. People with chains. People with bats.

And my own parents.

I quickly race away, and break through the ashes that were probably once my door. I reach the hallway, and race down, jumping over burning cinders and sparks leaping out at me. I make it to the stairs- or rather, the gaping hole where the stares would be. I can't hope to make it down the stairs and survive, at least not now. Not in my bare feet. Not when there are flames.

No. I can't hope to survive.

The smoke creeps into my lungs. I grasp at my neck in hopes of closing it off- I don't know why I'm actually doing it, really. Whenever someone chokes in a movie, it's usually because of gases. I guess smoke is a gas. So when they choke, they lift their hands to their throats for some odd reason.

I fall to the floor, in agony. Once again, I don't know why- except I know that it's not my doing. It's my body's.

My vision blurs.

I begin to cry. I well up in tears. I've always been one to cry, but never in a situation like this.

I pee my pajamas- this is the last time I wear a onesie, I laugh, as the flames lick at me.

The last thing I see is a figure in dark red approach. 