I didn’t mean to.

I really didn’t I swear.

My hands, I look at my hands. How could my hands have done all this. They’re black with burns, but I don’t feel them. I should feel them, I deserve to feel them.

Slowly, I sit down and lean against a brick wall. People are screaming and running around me, but I can’t hear them. Someone stops and makes eye contact with me before dashing away. The fear in their eyes, the sympathy, they don’t even know it was my fault.

Another person tries to pull me up. “Come on! Don’t give up now! You got to get out of here!” he says. I lash out, and I think I burn him.

The black on my hands aren’t burn marks, it’s ash and charcoal. I can’t be burned. That should be a good thing. My eyes have tears in them and I don’t know if it’s from the smoke or of guilt or sadness.

The fire continues to engulf everything, it’s all my fault. It shouldn’t be my fault. The test said I wasn’t one of them… I’m not supposed to be special…

I bury my head in my arms, shutting out my blazing thoughts and city. Maybe the fire will take me too, swallow me, until my bones are melted and I am released from this world.

I’m sorry.