preston hope [d8] [cb + rewrite] done

He is a swirling storm of flames and burnt ashes (those ashes are the reasons he had to live, and there are no reasons now)-- are there? He places his hand on the cold wall of his cell finding it funny that the disgust of a place for people to call home accuses him of being the guilty one. The only thing he's guilty of is the burns that were left on the arm of that family and he doesn't even care at all. His hand would slide down it as the only sounds filling his mind would be the thumping of boots landing on the cold hard ground and his own breath as it would run to the wall and bounce off of it, spreading across the room. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. If it was him instead of her, her safe and sound at home he wouldn't be doing this like some forced pattern.

There is no reason for him to be breathing. None. He should be burnt to ashes like the reasons he had to live; because he'd go out the way he came into this hell of a mess. His tattered hair is growing out of the normal (why should he care about being pampered; he isn't a toy of the capitol's to dress up and play with, is he?) The fire has engulfed him in a world that is far away from the country of blood, it's a world of the sweet cackle of a fire as it laughs at its prey. It's almost like the fire's laughing at him. He was their prey, now their pawn to burn every single piece of this disgusting world to the ground. That sounds nice, real real nice.

A storm of lighting bolts as fire.