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Burning
Burning
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After I had killed them, I burned them and their entire village so there was nothing left of the place where my mother died or of the people who had murdered her.

As the flames spread throughout the camp, I stood transfixed staring at a mother who lay over her child in a vain attempt to save him (or her?). I neither knew or cared.

They had not spared my mother.

I had not spared any of them.

Then the wind changed and the smoke took them from my sight, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs. Stray sparks burned small holes in my robes.

Still I stood, hoping perhaps to join the flames. Burning outside would have masked the pain of the burning inside that consumed my soul as much as it consumed the bodies before me.

But the flames did not welcome me.

I stood until the last ashes were scattered to the winds, then I took my mother and left.

Those I had killed were dead before they could feel the flames, but the inferno they had enkindled in me continued to burn brightly.

They were free.

I was not.