Burns Still There

Nightmare

He struggled under the burning debris, the flesh on his right side scorching in a way that would never leave him. Tears from the smoke that filled the air and his situation clouded his vision, and he struggled to breathe. No one was going to help him, he soon realized, and if they we're, they would be too late. He was already choking on smoke and the heavy piece of wood that had fallen on him had him pinned. If he could just move it a little...

Again, he shoved at the burning wood with his free hand, struggling to find the right leverage to slide out. He was strong, always had been. But the wood was burning his hand every time he touched it and his position made if difficult to lift. He gritted his teeth, giving a hard shove. He screamed as the wood scraped against his already singed skin, but it did finally slide off him. He shakily sat up, looking around him, only to find flames surrounding him completely. How was he to escape?

As if a gift from the heavens above, he found an opening in the flames. He made his way to it, as fast as he could. Freedom was beyond the split in the flames, he was sure of it.

He made it through, but as the ground disappeared from beneath him, he wish he'd just stayed and let the fire consume him. He was falling, falling from an impossible height it seemed, falling toward even more fire. But the fire wasn't what he was scared of.

Beneath him was a boar, gigantic and blackened, it's eyes filled with hate. It let out a squeal that filled him with a sense of dread he'd never known before. It's mouth unhinged and tilted upward, and he plummeted straight toward it. He fell in and the jaws snapped shut.

Fuel opened his eyes, panting and shaking. Again, the nightmare had driven him away from a full night's rest, as it had almost every night for the past three years. The right side of his body seemed to tingle, as though the flames were still there, eating away at him. He sat up, looking at a mirror on the wall next to wear he kept his uniform.

He looked a mess, but then again, he usually did. His brown hair stood up in all directions, try as he might to tame it. His bright, mismatched eyes had become dull and had purple bags beneath them. His skin, once a soft tan and covered in freckles, was pale and ghostly, with the exception of his right side. His cheek, arm, and neck we're visibly darker in patches, old burn scars littering the skin. It was the same mess he woke up to every morning, but he couldn't help hoping it would be different next time he woke. That he would be back to the cheerful twelve-year-old of three years prior.

Fuel got up, grabbing the white uniform and throwing it on, adjusting his cape. He put on the mask, which he wasn't sure if he felt better or worse for wearing. It was a reminder of who he was now, who he worked for, and what had become if the once beautiful island he called home.

Fuel shook his head. Now was not the time to dwell. He was assigned to oversee operations at the Lightning Tower today, and since he clearly wasn't getting any more sleep, he might as well head in early. He turned away from the mirror and left his room, marching down the hall and out the building to begin his day.