The flames are all throughout my room, and when I'm in there they enter my body too. They course through my veins, trying to kill me, but in my hell I am already dead and nothing can harm me. In hell I can only reflect and hate myself and everyone else who hates. Here in my hell I must live as though I don't feel the fire eating up what is left of me.

This is how I welcome people to my home. I warn them that there will be fire at their feet, and fire to their left, right, and above them; and I warn them that the fire will enter their lungs. This is how I welcome every visitor I have… namely air and silence. They are the only ones besides me to ever enter hell. And just like me, they will never leave. Just like me they are trapped, reliving every moment as if it were a movie. And just like me, they tell no one exactly what it is they have to hate or fear.

Maybe they're also like me in that they don't really know what they hate and fear. Maybe they just do it because it looked like the right choice at the time, and now I'm too addicted to do anything else. Maybe the more you see of a world you hate, the more you hate it until the hate consumes you and lives in you and eats your soul just like the fire…

Maybe I'm getting carried away.

But I figure if I write all of this crazy shit down someday when I am most likely dead… from… oh, can you die of insanity? Are the insane just so sane that people call them crazy? Anyway, when I am dead, my siblings' children can read about the nutcase that was their aunt… or something… I don't really know.

(mirabelle first draft)