Getting Burned by AJWSPJS1

Getting burned, you told me, was similar to when your mother asked you to dance at your prom; the horror of the situation, followed by the inevitable acceptance of your fate, as you prayed for unconsciousness, a darkness that never came. Every time I pass a fire now, I think of you dressed in a tux, with your hair slicked down, dancing with a desperate look in your eye.

"I don't think about her anymore," you said during my last visit as you turned her picture face-down on your tray, but I knew you were lying.

"It's time to go downstairs now," the nurse said after giving you the morphine.

Before I left, I took the picture and put it back on your nightstand. Beside it, I neatly arranged our badges and pins side by side, knowing you'd see them as soon as you got back to the room, knowing you'd realize what they meant, and what I'd done.