I was on fire. Every part of my body was burning and turning to ash. I felt like I was dying. I was dying. Fate had dealt me a cruel hand that day. Only at the age of thirteen years old I was sentenced to death. I would never grow up to see the world change, to have children, or to make something of myself. I would never put right the wrongs I had in my life. I would never see my friends and my family ever again. They would grieve over me. I could practically hear and see them all in black attire, staring at my unmoving form with in a coffin. A pastor would be preaching of how much I meant to everyone and whom I was leaving behind. As he would leave the podium some would cry out, and others would stand silent and stare at the ground below them.

For how long could they grieve though? Certainly not for all eternity. They would all eventually move on, and learn to cope with out me. They would learn to forget me. Then all I would be is a faded memory and a few pictures in a scrap book. I couldn't do that. I wouldn't allow that. I wasn't ready to die. Not today. Not as my mind was slipping away from my internally burning body, not ever. So I held on. Clutching onto my body for dear life. As I did, the burning began to disappear slowly, and I could feel my body become mine again. I waited for a moment, a moment of silence. Then I opened my eyes.