December 18th, 1939.
I shuddered as I walked down the country road, desperately looking for warmth. As I passed down the road I glanced to my left. Luckily, I noticed and inn. Trudging through the snow, I pulled open the door and a blast of warmth surrounded me.
Slowly walking forward, I heard a voice pierce my ears, “Welcom’ to the Rosey Inn, how may I help ye?” The man said in a thick accent.
“Just looking for warmth, that’s all,” I responded.
He replied by pointing to a set of chairs near a fireplace. I approached the fireplace, easing myself into one of the stiff chairs, happy for the heat. I focused on the roaring flames of the fireplace. Grief suddenly overwhelmed me as I shot up from the chair stumbling back from the fire. The man gave me a wary look, asking me if I was alright.
I waved off the question with sudden, unjustified anger. I walked outside and sat down beside the door, anxiety flowing through my veins. I saw her face; full of fear, calling for help. Screaming in pain. My heart broke as I remembered her being engulfed by the flames.
I slowly got up, tears streaming down my face. I grabbed an axe from a nearby shack and started hammering the ground with enough force to move a mountain. With each swing, more and more of my heart left me. With one final slash I collapsed on the snowy banks, wallowing in shame.