bobthecrusher

The nightmare was always the same, though it had stopped coming every night, and when it did he could almost always remember that it was a lie. In this nightmare; the town was on fire. An ungodly heat, like an oven set on high, came from everywhere, and no matter where in the room he was the warmth followed. Through the paneled window he could see his town, see the place he had grown up in and loved in and lived in; burning to the ground, dark silhouettes danced past his vision, gunshots and the clash of blades and the crackle of the fires made an eerie sort of music, one in which the only lyrics were the dying screams of the townsfolk. A wo