Burnt Hands

  My hands are singed, still burning from his touch. The flashbacks keep getting worse and worse. I held him in my hands, trying, desperately searching for the source of the blood--lots and lots of it. I opened his shirt, tears streaming down my face, but nothing. Then, I saw: the bullet had gone into the back of his skull, like in those old horror movies. But this, this was real. My memories pound, they beat me to the ground, with sharp claws and raging eyes--my hands--a pile of hot ash on the floor.

Based on a true story.