She was only a child...seven years old...just seven.
I held her in my arms, her clothing had melted to her body and bits of charred skin crackled in my hands. This little girl, this poor, sad little girl who had been treated so cruelly, so injustly, had been set ablaze and burned to death. I could hardly stand to look at her now, several layers of her flesh had been incinerated and it glistened sticky and slightly wet with blood and clear plasma. I couldn't fathom the amount of excruciating pain she must have been in while it happened and I knew she would have cried had her eyelids not been fused shut.
I wept for her instead.
The room smelled the most offensive, acrid smell of burnt hair and other things that I couldn't quite place, nor did I want to.
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