Chris

Three years is exactly 1,095 days spent in silence, where the walls weighed you down with their whiteness. Do you remember the smell of burning when he burned down your house? Do you remember the cold of the dump where he left you to die, looking into your glassy eyes? He thought he'd erased you from reality, traded your life for a comfortable marriage to another woman and a brilliant career.
But today his ideal world is turning to dust.
You stand in the shadows of his luxurious office, watching as he places his pen on a multi-million-dollar contract. His smile—that same fake one—fade as the lights dim and the smell of gasoline wafts through the vents. You emerge from the shadows, and the flames flare as you toss matches into a puddle of gasoline, devouring stacks of papers and his confidence.
“You... you should have rotted there,” his voice trembled.
You come closer.
"You always said I was fire, darling," your voice sounds frighteningly calm. "And fire can't be locked away forever."
"I'll call the police! Security!" He backs toward the window, clutching the useless folder to his chest.