The rain pattered against the wet cement. For a moment, she felt at peace, but then the memories came flooding in, like the drops that stung her bare skin. She remembered why she was there and all comfort flittered away.

One step for every bad memory. One step for each torture. One step for everything wrong with her.

She remembered every form of torture that they put her through. Every joke about her pimple covered face. Her fat thighs. Her friends leaving her, betraying her. Her being compared to everyone. Family, friends, teachers, enemies. She was never good enough.

She was close to the edge now. Every fiber of her being was screaming, No! No!, except her flashbacks. They urged her closer to the edge, to the thousand foot drop. She felt fear. Plain and simple. But she decided that there were worse things than death and took another step.

The final memory. This one was a dream, which just made it worse. It was perfect, just like she’d never be. It pushed her over the edge, into the fall, and she fell.

Could’ve been hours, could’ve been days. She had no way of knowing. The good came rushing in. Eating ice cream with her brother. Playing dressup with her mom.

But too late. She was already falling. Nothing could stop her. She was a comet, falling for all eternity. She hit, and all life dispersed from her body.

It rained for days after, as if mourning along with her family. But then again, people die when it’s sunny.

The girl shrieked. The burning red crawled towards her. The red that turned her skin pink when touched. That sent shots of pain throughout her body. Her tear streaked face searched for somewhere to hide.

Her parents. They would know what to do. But why hadn’t they made any noise? She ran for their door, but the flames blocked her way. She tried screaming louder. Surely they would hear her and come to help.

No noise except for the crackling of the killer.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. A girl of 14 years waded through the fire, gritting her teeth against the flares of pain. She reached out towards the child and made a movement for her to come.

The toddler pressed herself against the wall, away from the new person. Her pale green eyes that normally sparked with mischief were now struck with fear. “Am I going to be okay?”

The young woman nodded hurriedly, and gestured for her to come.

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise,” and they shook on it.

The 14 year old scooped her up and ran out, right through the blaze. She smothered the flames out, keeping the girl safe.

But that didn’t protect herself. Her long hair, once a beautiful light brown, now turned charcoal black and gave the fire a pathway to her scalp.

Her skin, once fair now turned a blistering red. She withstood the pain to protect a life even more innocent than hers.

She let out one last scream before stumbling through the open door. She collapsed on the pavement. Oh, safe pavement. Her burns seared, and her arms loosened enough for the little girl to climb out.

“No, no! You pinky promised! You said that it would be all right!” She fell to her knees. “No, no, please, no. It was going to be ok.”

The lady stroked her cheek. “No dear, I said that you would be ok.”

At that moment, the sirens could be heard all over the city. Everything coming to help, but too late.

The child curled up in a ball, devastated that in just one night, she could lose her parents and her hero.

As the ambulance whisked the teen away, the last thing she heard in all of her memories, her life flashing before her eyes, was just ten minutes ago. Herself promising to her mother over the phone, “Yes mother. I’ve walked home before. Of course I’ll be safe.”

And the little girl, well, the little girl, she found a nice home, with a kind and loving couple who couldn’t have children.

But her hair never darkened, reminding her of her savior’s once light hair burnt black. Her skin stayed pale, making her pale pink scars stand out, and making her wince in remembrance every time she glanced at a mirror. Her eyes never lost their spark, terrifying her that one day it would grow to a burning flame.

She grew up abused. Not by parents. Not by a teacher. Not by a boyfriend.

But by the past.