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A flurry of bright reds and oranges roar and crackle, eating away the old and moist wood, leaving ashes and charcoal in its wake. The fire eats away skin, lightly caressing cheeks before it destroys life, ending it with another hiss. The grievous and searing flames continue to decrepitate and sputter, earning the gazes of the surrounding neighbours as they share murmurs and whispers of rumors and opinions.
'who lived there again?'
They ask, orbs reflecting the bittersweet end. Whispers only get louder, and louder, and louder. You wonder, will they ever stop? Do you need to cut off their tongues and shove down their words down their throats for silence?
(Cover your ears, dear, you don't have to listen.)
'oh, it was them, wasn't it?'
Another query is carried by the wind, a hint of a malicious smirk tugging at the corners of their lips as a hand covers the evil entity that lives within them. Your fingers twitch at their expressions, an anger brewing a storm at the pit of your stomach.
(They're lying, angel eyes, you don't need to believe them.)
'they were always so distant'
A voice whispers but it is heard by all. Blinded by the hearsay, they feed and grasp unto whatever they can. You're irritated, steel eyes stormy as you gnaw on your bottom lip.
(Sunshine, close your eyes, they deserve your pity.)
'i heard they were demons'
The statement is bold but they can no longer think for their own, they hold on to anything. They reach, and reach, and reach - and they drag down so they may feel pride swell in their chests.
