His image was everywhere in town; I needed to leave. For days and days, I lied in bed dreaming he was still here. But he was not. Zane was dead, and there was nothing that could bring him back.

For a change, I moved to a small town in Maine. Everything here is quiet and peaceful; there are no reminders of Zane. One foggy and cold night, I was forced to start a fire to keep warm in my small house. I came across Zane’s old letters to me and I broke. It felt like I was stabbed once again by Grief and was left to die bleeding. My hands were not my own when I threw the letters into the fire.

Change; I was looking for change and I achieved it. But maybe I didn’t want to change. Maybe I didn’t want to burn his letters. And maybe I didn’t want to stop grieving.

It’s my fault.

It’s my fault.

It’s My Fault.

IT’S MY FAULT.

IT’S MY FAULT!

That’s all i can think, all i can say, all i can scream into the ash filled air. Things were finally changing. Things were getting be better. But I couldn’t handle that apparently. Good wasn’t Great enough for me. I needed more. I ALWAYS need more. Tears choke my windpipe making it impossible. The air is thick with smoke and desperation. The Fire was getting out of control, tearing down buildings that i had lived my whole life in. Effortlessly destroying my entire reality. This is my fault. I look around at the damage, the corpses. I can’t do this. Why couldn’t i just be happy with what I had? That was a rhetorical question. I know why I look at my brother in the corner, he is not breathing but I can still hear his laughter. How is that possible? That was a rhetorical question as well. My mind is trying to make me process my grief, I refuse. First I have to fix this. This is my fault. I HAVE to make it right.

They wouldn’t change. No matter how much I pleaded and begged they wouldn’t leave their toxic cycle. They wouldn’t leave their trail of blood. I always felt like an outsider. The one person who didn’t belong in this town.
And now here I am feeling just like a lured in tourist. Like them, this town has left me out of breath. But not because my life is ceasing no, it’s about to start anew. I’m scared. Even with the fire of freedom burning within me I feel a cower inside. On paper, leaving everything I ever knew made sense but the pain of reality was hitting me. My family wasn’t coming along as they were too ingrained. My friends…were a lost cause too. So here I am, in my car, ditching this town on my own. Earlier, I didn’t let it sink in that this morning at breakfast was the last I’d ever see of them.

It was the last time I’d hear my sister giggle and my mom sip her cup of coffee. I’ll never hear my dad drop a mug of coffee at exactly eight am like clockwork again. There was still uneaten cake in the fridge from my birthday last night. Eighteen. The age of freedom and escape. I come from a town the locals call secrets because of how many are tied to us at birth. They wear the burden of secrets like a badge but I always felt like it was a curse. To outsiders, our small little town was called Jackson Springs named after the man who discovered the local hot spring that was our tourist attraction. He was also the man who started this all. And he was our leader, superior, and giver of judgement.

Yes, he’s been around for a long time. During the gold rush he had discovered a hot spring along with his friend that had an unfortunate end. But before that, Jackson had played hero, diving in after his friend but it was too late. His friend had died but the springs ended up rewarding Jackson for his courage with youth. He went from forty to a youthful twenty-five. No one in town but Jackson knows how the hot springs really works. But when people come of a chosen age they go there with a tourist sacrifice of their choosing and earn the hot spring’s gift for themselves.

There was even an annual festival celebrating it called The Town’s life jubilee. At this festival, kids would play apple bobbing without the apples holding other children’s heads in the water as they laughed. The kid’s being held were labeled as a tourist and once a certain amount of time passed they would lift their heads up and say, “I can’t wait for my reward when I grow up.”

A promise of almost immortality to the smiling youth always brought pride to their parent’s faces. But looking back, I didn’t understand how anyone wasn’t repulsed by the way kids glamorized murder. A couple years ago, I googled one of the tourists who came here. I found a missing person’s post their family had made. He had a granddaughter who made him a macaroni necklace that he always wore. I remember seeing it before…is it wrong to feel grief for people I’d never tried to save? Even now, I’m not rescuing anyone, no, I’m just running away.

I start my car, my bags all packed in my trunk. My future unwritten but my past forever soiled.

I had to get away. I needed a change of scenery. Everything is so much different now. Nothing was the same after the fire. It was an accident, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I never thought it could happen to us. I jhad ust left a candle lit while I went to the store, I never expected it to start a fire. I never thought the fire would cause so much destruction. The fire burned down the whole house in under an hour while I was out shopping, taking my parents along with it. The firefighters said they tried to escape but they got trapped on the top floor before the building collapsed. I caused their deaths, they would still be here if not for me. The guilt still overwhelms me, it’s one of the reasons I left. I couldn’t spend another day in that town with all the stares I got. The ones of anger were bad, but the ones of pity were so much worse how its like they knew what I did. They just know it was an accidental fire, not what, or rather who, caused it. I never light candles any more, too afraid that history will repeat itself.

I had been living in the Simple little town of Windale my whole life. Thirty-two years to be exact. I never thought I would ever leave, let alone be forced out. They told me it was all my fault. I guess I owe it all to the change. It’s not my fault I fell in love with a vampire.
It’s something I never thought would happen to me. I never in my wildest dreams thought that I would ever find love, let alone with someone like him. I fell in love with him instantly, no compulsion required. I loved him but my family didn’t. It’s not customary in our community to even converse with the vampire species. I didn’t care what they thought was best for me. Only I will decide for myself what’s good for me. We had planned to run away with each other and enjoy the rest of eternity being madly in love. But my community and my family had other plans. Evil plans to be precise. They knew where our meeting spot in the woods was located and was already ready to meet him when he arrived. I told him to meet me there first and wait, I shouldn’t be that long. They must have spewed all their hatred towards him at once before setting him on fire. I could see the big clouds of smoke fuming from the woods before I even left the house. Their plan was to set the vampire on fire and claim it was for my own good. For the good of the community. However the flames grew out of hand and immediately torched them and half the woods, killing most of the magical witches in town. The very few that survived claimed it was all my fault. I was the one responsible for killing half the witches of Windale because I fell in love with a vampire. They warned me that if I didn’t leave the town of Windale, they would have to punish me the same way my fellow witches perished. I didn’t hesitate. I was already planning on leaving my hometown on my terms. It just hurts that I’m being banished and never to return. It was our plan to run away and live happily forever after. Just a witch and her vampire leaving it all behind holding onto their love. Now I leave alone with nothing but grief.

She ran. She ran as far as her bare feet could carry her. And still, it was not far away enough to escape the pain that raged inside her.

What had she done? What had she done?

She paused to catch her breath as she leant on the corner of the rock face, not knowing what was around the corner. Not caring.

She had escaped to the canyon, where the giant orange rocks reached for the blue skies above, as she followed the river below that snaked through the rock faces.

She had been running for 2 days now. Running away from them. Running away from the raw memories of what had happened.

But while shock may have been her saviour at first, helping her to gather her wits and flee, it had soon started to fade. Instead, the screaming horror of grief had begun to take its place.

A tear ran down her dirty face as she wiped her nose.

‘No point, really,’ she thought. Her arm was filthy, as was the rest of her.

“Beware the Fire-Child!” the villagers would whisper when her back was turned. She hated it. She hated being the subject of their gossip. Of the frightened glances. Of people scurrying away at the mere sight of her.

‘But they were right, weren’t they? They were right.’

She had thought she could keep it in check - keep herself from igniting anything within 60 paces of her. But there was no rhyme or reason. It happened at random. Just a feeling of intense anger, a few milliseconds before the flames roared out of her towards its prey.

She had changed from that unremarkable village girl to a monster. A monster who lived alone, in the tiny, once abandoned stone hut on the outskirts. Even her parents chose to shun her.

“You of no daughter of ours!” they said, as they pushed her out into the biting cold. Their voices echoed in her head even now. That day, she lost her home, her family, and her heart.

And yet, she couldn’t blame them. Look at what she had become. She was a monster.

And somewhere deep inside, she knew this day would come. A time when her curse wouldn’t ignite a random tree, or an unsuspecting fox’s tail. A time when, instead, she would ignite the village hall and everyone inside it. The fire injured ten of the villagers inside, and kill three. All because she couldn’t control these powers she had been cursed with.

So she ran.

She ran and didn’t wonder where she was going.

She ran without wondering what she’d do.

She just put one foot in front of the other, knowing there would never be enough distance she could put between herself and the terrible thing she had done.

And yet, somewhere many miles away, a white witch sensed the child’s presence - her grief, her chaos. A white witch who set off on her travels, companions in tow to find this child, wild in her ways of the flame. A white witch that would come to save her soul and show her the love and acceptance she had craved for all these years.

The witch of the Crimson Realm.

Bean lived as a slave among others. She didn’t have a name and was more of an experiment and a servant than anything else. Her body consisted of angels and demons. Since Nephalems are a hunted species, this only intrigued her master more. It took many generations but eventually, he bred Bean, the perfect combination of angel and demon biologically. From here on, he performed tests, had her perform various tasks and work. He molded her body into something that was too weak to fight back but embodied grace and delicacy. Her wings were kept clipped and she is always attached to a wall. When Bean was 19, she had grown furious and started plotting her escape.

No one was willing to help, the consequences were too great. Late in the night, Bean used a bit of charm, batting her eyelashes at one of the men who work for her master. It was easy. He’d been sexually frustrated for a while and this pretty little thing was showing him interest. The night went as expected, the man falling asleep after intercourse. Bean is used to it and she snatched his keys. It was quick work. She removed her chains and snuck out of the window. There were people standing guard, but at 4 in the morning they are focused on how bored they were.

By setting a fire, the distraction allowed her to run, and even though they chased her, she had too much of a head start. She made it to safety by daylight, climbing high up into a tree with the last bit of strength left. For the next day and night when she wasn’t running or trying to find food, she grieved for everyone she left behind.

"I had to get out of there. No, you don't understand. I HAD to get out of there. Arrowdale wasn't the same. It changed. It changed so much since the fire.

I didn't know why. But I was the only one immune to it. It seemed like no one else realized it had changed at all. That it didn't even resemble the Arrowdale I knew.

Maybe it was grief. At all the souls lost in that dreadful inferno. Maybe it was the toxins that came from the burning chemicals. Maybe it was simply the fact that Arrowdale had been in the same loop for sixty years and we were due for a change.

Sorry, they.

I'm not one of them anymore.

They used to be happy. WE used to be happy. In our little Stars Hollow-esque world, with our small town gossip and a movie theatre, grocery store, and three different restaurants all within walking distance.

But then it changed.

The people were less friendly. They almost seemed... Paranoid. They walked around with shifty eyes and fidgeting fingers. And when I passed by the town square, where the old ladies usually went to catch up and gossip, no one was there.

When I bought my groceries at the market, I was no longer greatest by a smiling cashier, asking me if I was going to the town campfire that night. I was no longer bombarded with 'hello's and 'how are you?'s as I grabbed my favorite cereal from the shelf.

And then the deaths began.

The paper, the Arrowdale Reporter, flooded with headlines and articles describing the deaths of my fellow townspeople. Tales of people going mad and killing friends and family were whispered through the media. People with wild eyes were dragged off to asylums as they screamed their world's of nonsense.

The only people on the street were the appocolypse preparers, preaching of the end times and warning people to stock up. No one took them seriously. They should have.

As more and more bodies came to the county morgue, more police arrived. They patrolled the streets at night. They arrested any suspicious looking citizen. Anything to stop the deaths.

People were rioting. Taking to the streets with pitchforks and torches, shouting for this to be over. They seemed to think that one party was to blame for this chaos. They knocked on doors and raided homes on their witch-hunt, not caring who or what they hurt in the process.

Then the demons arrived.

I suppose they weren't really demons. They were people. They were infected. Their eyes turned black, a midnight colored liquid dripping from their sockets and mouth. Their skin cracked and black veins were suddenly visible through the thin layers of skin.

The death count rose.

Soon, the cops were gone. We were a lost cause. The only way to contain us was to block us off.

Fences started appearing on the borders of town. The people started looking once more for someone to blame. And their eyes fell on me. The single woman living alone on the border of town. And as the rumors arose, so did my realization that if I were to survive, I had to leave. It was a miracle that I hadn't been infected already.

The fence was almost finished. Three layers of thick, electrified metal with barbed wire on top. And if I didn't leave then, I would be at the mercy of the manic townspeople who were out for blood, red and black alike.

The night I snuck out, I realized how much of a ghost town Arrowdale had turned into. I halfway expected a tumble weed to roll across the street.

I made my way to the first of town, the only place the fence hadn't reached. Yet.

And I left.

And that's how I made it here," I finish, sitting back in the seat.

The officer leans back against the wall, crossing his arms and looking me up and down. His black hair is shaved close to his head, his brown eyes kind. He wears a typical police uniform. "That's quite a tale."

"A true one," I say, agreeing with him.

"I have no doubt it's true. I'm just amazed you lasted that long without getting infected," he shrugs.

I open my mouth to say something, but close it again, hesitating.

"Yes?" He asks.

"Do you... Know what it was? The virus?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know the specifics. Just that it's called "The Murder Virus". An inspired name."

I chuckle. "Yeah. Very original."

The door opens and another cop steps in. He's wearing a hospital mask. He looks for the cop in front of me, to me. And when his eyes land in my direction, they widen, and his motions suddenly become stuff and squirrelly. He quickly hands the cop a clipboard with a mask attached to it and leaves.

When the cop reads the contents of the paper, his eyes widen as well. He hurries to put a mask on.

"What?" I ask, worry seeping into my voice. "Why are you putting on a mask?"

"Uh, we got your blood work back. I'll um, be right back. I have to check something."

He sets the clipboard on the ledge by the big mirror, and exits, his pace fast and hurried.

When he leaves, confusion crosses me face. I stand up and walk towards the ledge where the clipboard is and pick it up.

My eyes widen.

The clipboard clatters to the floor.

POSITIVE.

I can't stay here, no matter how much I want to. The change in this city is making it hard to live here anymore. None of us natives want to say. Not after what these leaders are doing to it. I have to laugh using the word leaders. They are anything but, showing they don't care about our lives. They're treating us as prisoners and we have to leave before it's too late.

Their new laws, stupid ones, ignited a fire in all of us. Yes, that's what it was, a fire that needed to be lit for us to see how horrible they were. We regretted voting for them now that we knew all along that their plan was to take our freedom away. Making up rules they said were to protect us, but in reality they were trying to slowly kill us.

I don't know who is leaving today, but I know I am. I can't stand to stay in a city that is bringing me nothing but grief. So many so-called friends have turned against me because I refuse to believe the lies. But that is fine. They'll see in the end that those of us who didn't believe the lies were right the whole time. Until then, I rather be alone and not following the insane rules of these people. They're trying to keep us locked up and tell us there is no way out, but I know better. Hope is there and the end of their nonsense is coming.

All I did was light a match. I was sick and tired of their bullshit - sick and tired of them acting like they were better than everyone. I needed to smoke some weed. I snuck outside while they did their best to impress the guests who were just as fucked up as they were. If they knew that I smoked weed they’d have disowned me immediately. It was all about maintaining appearances with them. They were lucky I didn’t smoke crack after being raised by such hypocrites.

I went outside and pulled a joint out of my pocket, looking for my lighter. It wasn’t in the pocket of my blazer so I knew that it had probably fallen out in the house somewhere. I had to find it before they did. A stray lighter in the home of a well to do family would raise suspicion from the guests, and likely a beating from my parents. Fuck, I couldn’t wait to escape this hell hole. I snuck back inside to find the lighter. I wanted to avoid unnecessary trouble but I also wanted to get high. I scoured the house for the damn thing but it was nowhere to be found. Heading into the kitchen, I grabbed the book of matches that had been carefully tucked away to light emergency candles in case of a power outage. Throwing it in my pocket, I snuck back outside and grabbed the joint.

It had been a really dry summer and the grass was brown and ugly looking. The trees were half dead and none of the plants in the garden survived. Too bad considering how much money they spent on full time gardening staff. Striking the match, a glowing orange flame came to life at my fingertips. I lit my joint and inhaled as much of that sweet smoke as I could. I welcomed the light haze of oblivion that I knew would follow. I finished the joint and threw the roach on the ground. I threw the match on the ground along with it and took a moment to stare up at the starry sky. There was never anything as satisfying as smoking a fat one and appreciating nature. I looked at the sky and wondered if there were other life forms up there. It took me a minute to clue in to the fire that had started on the lawn. It was a smoulder at first, and honestly I was so stoned that I took pleasure in the pretty orange flames that started to dance around on the ground. The flames grew even bigger as they spread to the pile of dead branches and leaves that the gardeners had left behind the house. It all seemed so natural - how the flames began to grow as they were fed. Soon enough they had grown to cover the pile of branches and moved gracefully toward the house to share its warm embrace. I smiled as the fire quickly consumed the house in its entirely, as if cleansing the evil out of it. I’d never have to go back into that house again. I’d never have to be beaten again. I’d never have to locked in a room without food for days to ameliorate my sins. It was finally over.

Since the fire, people think I should be sad that I lost the only family I ever knew. They can’t understand how I walked away from that fire physically and emotionally unscathed. Of course, the investigation was inconclusive. They couldn’t prove that I was responsible for the fire that killed my parents but my absence of grief has raised suspicion.

I didn’t cry at the funeral. That made people uncomfortable - it was like my absence of emotion sent them over the edge. Soon I was ostracized by the whole community.

Needless to say, I was sick of the bullshit. I needed a change. For the first time in my life I had nothing holding me back. I hung around long enough for the inheritance money to be deposited then left without saying ‘goodbye’.