he held her in his arms. She was homeless. She was bleeding. She was dying.
She painted the sidewalk a dark shade of red.
He called for help. He tasted his tears. He cried for help. Somebody. Anybody.
She died in his arms, and all he could do was cry for her.
They just walked by. Some turned to look. Some even said something. But they all walked away. No one wants to be a hero.
The sirens never came.
He buried her, all by himself. No one helped. No one wanted to. No one cared.
They asked what was wrong with him. He slammed his door shut, and locked himself away from the world. They were concerned, but called it a phase.
He emerged from his self-imprisonment, with red eyes and sight set on something. He never spoke a word to them. He left that place, never coming back.
In a field of dry grass on the outskirts of the city, he found his fury. Let it burn inside him, and finally burst into a great blaze. The match was only an instrument of his wrath. If they thought him helpless, powerless, he would prove them wrong. If nobody cared, then he didn't care either.
She was dying! Yet all they can do is watch!
The blaze kept him company. It embraced him, holding him in its arms. Then finally consuming him. He left with a sadistic smile. The flames matched his eyes.
He could only bring pain to those that had only given him pain...
Author's note: Read something in the newspaper. Forgot what it was thought :( But no this did not really happen, at least to my knowledge...