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First was the noise: loud, echoing, terrifying. It filled the halls of this, his new shrine, shrieking its fury. Then the light, bright as the sun which could never touch these hallowed walls, reflecting in the eyes of those around him. He heard scrabbling sounds, like rats in the dark, felt something tug at his arm, but it was distant, far away. His entire world was the fire.
He had always hated fire. Smoking, Syndey would say, was his way of trying to harness his fear; make it into something he could control. Damn shrinks. They could psychoanalyze whether you dressed left or right. Fire stole his health, chained him to this damn tank, and almost took his life. He could still remember how helpless he'd been, waiting for the skin grafts to take, watching that Parker bitch as she peeled them away, an unholy glee in her eyes. She'd get hers now.
The fire grew closer, howling for his blood, desperate to finish what it had started. It wanted him to burn, to hear his screams as he sought a release which would never come. The fire was alive. It filled every pore of his being, overwhelmed all of his senses, and was hungry for more.
Never again.
As he slipped the gun in his mouth and squeezed, he knew that this time he had won.