The soft light showers the room making it look cold and empty and the sent of vanilla fills my lungs, making them burn. Burn. Thats what my mom said before she lit the match making the room go up in harsh light. Turning my eyesight into dark red and bright yellow, burning my eyes dry. I remember the heat against my skin making it flakey. Its hard to remember when I fell though. Hitting my head against the ashy floor and cutting my hand through the glass. No pain, no tears, just bright light. Just the sent of burning as the heat of the glass melted my skin. Just the sent of the vanilla cake my father made before red clumpy liquid spewed from his burning heart.
