The Boy With The Fire In His Heart

The cold winter wind rushed through the broken window of the abandoned house. The girl in the shadows shivered, backing further away from the shattered glass. The breeze blew her hair into her eyes, and she quickly pushed it away. Her dark red hair was like a fire burning in the darkness, a beacon glowing brightly for her hunter to find.

She looked over her shoulder for the millionth time, feeling paranoid. He could be anywhere-- lurking in a dark corner, waiting behind a closed door, silently standing behind her-- and she wouldn’t even know it. He was too quiet. Too good at this horrible game.

She stepped into the light cast by the moon, quickly climbed out the window, and landed on the side of the deserted street. The old factory loomed in the distance like a far-off memory of her old life, and she shivered again. This time though, it was not because of the cold night; the tainted memory was what caused goosebumps to form on her pale arms.

Something warm then slid over her shoulders and she almost screamed in surprise. Almost.

The girl looked down at the jacket wrapped around her, immediately recognizing it. She knew she couldn’t run forever, but she had thought that there would be more time. She turned around, praying it wasn’t him. But there he stood, looking the exact same way he had when they’d first met.

It hurt her to see him again, but it cut her to the core when she saw the knife in his hand, gleaming in the moonlight. The apology in his eyes made her want to turn and run, but she knew it was over. She knew she couldn’t escape her fate.

“I loved you,” she whispered, the pain evident in her voice.

The girl saw that he understood, that he knew. She caught the grief that flickered in his eyes before he swiftly plunged the knife into her heart. Just as the world around her went dark, she spotted the trembling of his chin as he caught her.

Yet, there were things the girl didn’t see, things she didn’t know. She didn’t see him hurl the knife across the abandoned street in anger before falling to his knees. Nor did she know that although the boy had been told over and over that it had to happen, he was angry at himself for what he had done.

Because she was long gone now.

He was supposed to leave, but he couldn’t. Not when she laid cold before him. The first tear in fifteen years fell from his eye, landing in the dirt beside her. He looked to the dark night sky and wished that he could tell her how much he loved her, wished that he could wrap his arms around her and have her hold him back.

Wishes don’t come true though. This he knew all too well. It was the one thing his father had never let him forget.

“I loved you too,” he whispered, wiping away his last tear. But she was dead now and there was no one else on that abandoned street to hear him.