All those memories. He swallowed hard, but merely stared at the fire, not allowing himself to quench it. This was the last thing he had that would remind him of his past. The last memory of his family. The last memory of a calm and joyful life. He wanted to weep, but no tears came. He sat only a few pace away from the fire, feeling the heat on his skin, and still holding that match he had used to set the guitar on fire. It burned well, he thought darkly, as though it had been meant to be.

The guitar gone, there would be nothing left of him for anyone to find. He would have been too easily found, too quickly tracked down. The guy with the guitar. Or they would see the guitar lying somewhere and know he had been there. He shook his head. No, this was the only way.

Only then did he realise with growing apprehension the foolishness of what he had done. The fire could be seen miles off. Just when he realised he was as good as dead, the hooded men stepped out from the trees all around him.

© 2016

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, Week of 03-01-2016

Photo prompt provided by pixabay.com

Published by Fia Coldwell

Suspense Writer

12 thoughts on “Burning

    1. Thank you! There’s always things that you don’t, or can’t, consider beforehand.. That way it’s impossible to figure out beforehand whether it’s the right choice, or the wrong one.

      Liked by 1 person

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