The fire.

Kyle could remember the fire. Who in town didn't? Though still young, certain emergencies called for any countermeasure available; he was in the bucket brigade. And as the hours passed, their efforts seemingly having little effect, each pail of water vanished into steam instantly upon hitting the ridiculous inferno.

It was madness! Having never seen a fire of such magnitude, Kyle was still flush with skepticism weeks later. Was such a thing possible? Could a burning frame of mere wood and pitch really shrug away a constant barrage of water? Were they but ants, flicked away by a raging giant, so insignificant he nary felt their stings? Impossible.

In the end, the fire drank deep, fueled almost, by the lives of the sad girl's family. Or maybe it was Sad Girl, for that became her bearing, if not her very name. His mind reeled, knowing that a few short weeks ago, she was his budding girlfriend. The stolen kiss they shared, that tasted so sweet. Everybody knew they would be married someday—it was the way of things. When school was over, after he took over the heavier work, he'd have her busy breeding strong sons. That thought brought a blush to his face, but not a deep one; it was, after all, expected for wives to birth. In two or three years, he would have had his own family, and it would have been bliss.

But then it all drifted away in the ashes that rose from her home that night, vicious spectres of smoke dancing in the starry sky. She was broken, utterly. Kyle suspected Annie's death had affected her the worst, or her mother's unborn child; two innocents brought low by undeserved calamity. Sad Girl went through the motions of life, eating, drinking, sleeping—though not enough—never enough to sustain her growing body, and she withered. She sat on the swing to his right like a marble statue, a pale skeleton, hollow eyes and empty gaze, holding a battered book on her lap. Kyle wished, ached for her to cry, weep, shudder with sobs, all the things she'd done in the weeks after that terrible night. He'd accept anything, except the yawning void which swallowed the once vibrant girl.

Now, she was less than nothing. A discarded carapace, her soul long departed to fruited meadows and happier places, in her mind, or maybe heaven.

He shook his head in righteous anger; it was all such a waste! Kyle shamed himself, thinking perhaps it would be better if she died in the fire, reduced to a warped skeleton frozen in immortal agony by charred ligaments and cooked sinew. He remembered that horrific sight, though the men quickly crowded around the scene to spare the young from the fright, and inevitable nightmares the twisted bodies would bring. He'd caught that glimpse, and that was enough. Looking upon his memory of the aftermath, as the men later buried the brittle bones, even knowing the implicit meaning there, he now wished Sad Girl had suffered the same fate.

Maybe not shame, and definitely not anger. Pity it was, was the worst kind. The emotion that stole reason from wise men, bluster from the brave and experienced, rage from the furious. It was the ultimate tuning-fork, addling the wits and better judgement from everyone caressed by its seductive wiles.

That, probably more than anything else, broke her will. Kyle knew it, superimposed over his own empathy for her plight, and every unforgettable scene singed into his memory, sat distaste, a horrid imp cajoling him to avoid her sadness, and regain his strength. Oh, her poor family! Oh, the terrible fire! Oh, what hardship, tribulation, and woe! We must help her, for she can't fend for herself! Pity the wretched whelp, without family, devoid of hope, a pariah of circumstance!

It was all a lie. Every hushed word in her presence, whispered "be nice, there she is," she overheard, charitable meal, or condescending speech meant to inspire optimism, made her less, cheated her of closure. Kyle could see the evidence to his right, listlessly consumed with some distant nothingness, eyes once beautiful and wondrous, without glimmer and unblinking in hollow sockets black and weary. His heart broke, seeing what she'd become, and understanding he shared partially in the blame. He also tried to console her early on, let her sob in his chest as he cooed soothing words in her ears—sincere sentiments all—shocked as he was by the unpredictable and unimaginable destruction he knew he'd never understand. How could he possibly dare to suggest everything will be alright, or I'll protect you, in a world gone mad, a disjointed unreality without parallel?

He knew now, every well-meaning word stabbed like a barb at her reason, insulted her with hidden malice. To her, then and maybe even now, it would never be alright. Everyone she loved was dead, even the silly rabbit, and the entire town placated her with false understanding or avoided her outright, as she reminded them of the dead family in ways the smoldering wreckage of her home never could. Instead of gaining strength and moving on, everyone in town reminded her daily of just what she'd lost, and it became an anchor, heavy on her spirit.

So died his former first love, by his own hand, if not the fire.

He didn't know what she was always writing in that book she carried around, now barely able to lift its weight. Maybe it was better nobody knew. Nobody here or anywhere, ever. Certainly not candy and lilacs, nor spring and morning dew, but a shriveled destiny yearning to end its suffering. It was written in her sunken face and weakened muscles if not the book itself. She was done.

Or maybe not. Kyle was startled to see her stir once more, struggling to open the oversized diary immediately to a specific blank page, jab a quill directly into her arm, and as he watched in frantic dismay, write with the bloodied end in unrestrained fury, though her face reflected no emotion still. He didn't know what was worse: that she didn't bother fetch an inkpot, or that she didn't flinch, grimace, or yelp as the quill pierced her pale flesh. Each time the ink ran dry, and she dipped into the weeping wound, Kyle squirmed in vicarious misery. But no matter how much the scene disturbed him, he simply couldn't bring himself to stop her.

At least he could watch over her, as one last gift to the girl she was. Even as the other children went home, he sat and made sure she didn't collapse from loss of blood, or stab something vital in her sudden eerily driven inspiration. He imagined it was like watching a monk supplicate and chant, sweating in front of a roaring fire for days, not eating, drinking, or even sleeping until reaching inner peace or at least some new insight. Maybe it was foolish hope from a boy pained by her spiraling deterioration, but in a perfect utopia, she'd find that nirvana and regain herself, and this was her final trial.

Either way, she'd have her peace. That was something, wasn't it?