Sick as Hell Writing Prompts.

Karma.

*death*
*a bit of alcohol abuse*

The fireworks were just supposed to hit your house. You know that. But still, you lie, with your side bleeding out, in a home quickly filling with smoke. You hear shouting, debating what to do. You splutter and choke. You feel warm liquid dribble down your chin. You wince. Your blood stains your wooded floor. Alarms blare outside. Water comes gushing in your crashed window. Firefighters. You know they won't make it in time, though. The flames near your face. Your white walls creak. Your small little home going up in a deadly fire as you choke on it's burning parts.

You can't feel the pain of where the firework hit you anymore. You can't feel the heat on your body of the inferno. You can't feel the shaking of your floor or crumbling of your walls. You know what's happening. You're dying.

You would cry but frankly, you're not that sad. Sure, you'll miss your mom but - wait will you? You don't know what happens after death. You'll soon find out. Either way, your life was miserable. You're almost happy to escape it. You weren't dying the way you had hoped. You always held a small glimmer of hope that you would settle down, adopt a cat, get a great job, retire in Switzerland, but you guess not. This was a decent getaway. From life, from bullies.

You're eyes slowly slip closed. Your heart slows. Your thoughts become incoherent. The world becomes silent. You see only darkness. You don't see a blinding bright light, like in the movies. It's just black. For the longest time, it's just black. You're floating in pure darkness. Finally, a gold shimmering forms ahead of you. The shimmers pull together, as if coming into a shape. A shape? You soon realise it's a person. A woman in a tight gold dress with navy hair, grown down to her waist stands there, staring at you, with glittery navy eyeshadow and remarkable skin.

"Hello," she says with an airy voice. Her lips don't part as she speaks. She seems to be floating on the spot, her bare feet hang beneath her.

"Sweetie, you know what has happened," her voice echoed in your head. You nod. "Then this your time... for revenge.". She reached back, pulling a golden handled dagger, seemingly from nowhere. She hands it to you, you reach out, your faded hand grasps around it, even though you thought you were much further back.

As you touch the hilt, your head vibrates as your hair turns to gold. You blink, as you see your reflection in the blade, your eyes are the same shade of navy as the woman's hair. You admire your new look for longer than you'd like to admit.

Both hand clasps around the cold dagger. You turn it over and read the word engraved, 'karma'.

"What is this?" you ask. Your voice is off. It's slow and calm, it's like your in a cave.

The woman in the dress simply tilts her head and smiles. Your vision becomes blurry, you see a light, the woman ahead of you fades, your ears pop and you hear voices, suddenly, your feet fall on a hard floor. The wound in your side is healed. You look around. You're in your elementary school classroom. It's exactly as you remember, just the seats are filled with a new set of bored students chattering to each other halfheartedly. In the front, Mr. Sullivan, your old maths teacher, writes on the chalkboard, still facing the ignoring class. His brown hair has grown almost fully grey, his white face is wrinkled, his dark eyes are evil as ever.

You seethe with hatred for this man. You remember how he laughed as you cried, pouring your heart out to him about your tormentors. You recall his viscous smirk as they stuck gum onto your unsuspecting hair. Every bad thing he had ever done came rushing back to you like a waterfall. You glance at the dagger still in your hands. Your form is slightly transparent, the way you'd imagine a ghost. But the dagger is solid, as if intentionally drawing attention to it's self. You feel like it's speaking to you. Mr. Sullivan begins to drone on to the students, who's conversations come to a patient end to focus on their teacher.