The Little Man.

Disclaimer: This story contains implications of suicide, PTSD and death. Please take this story seriously, it is based on true events.

The shelves of books had toppled over and the books themselves were hugged tightly with debris. The lingering scent of charred smoke tingled in his nostrils, and the black charcoal remnants of the last hour covered the poor, skinny man head to toe. His rosy cheeks stained a dark and gloomy gray, and his frail hands shook uncontrollably as the little man stood in what was left of his small library. Contaminated tears strolled down his face, his thin lips quivering and he let out quiet sobs.

"Why me?" he cried out, sinking to the floor in despair, "What did I do to deserve this?" His voice wavered and his head dropped to his chest. His thoughts sunk with his heart, while the memories, still fresh in his mind, started to replay themselves. The wild and turbulent fire raging through his shelves, swallowing everything in its monstrous path of doom.

The jingling bells and feathery voices of a children's choir looped through the charred, wooden door. His thoughts strayed from his poor library, and to his long gone wife. Esmeralda.

She had long, lustrous hair that swayed perfectly in the wind, and her eyes, those beautiful bright green eyes. They were so welcoming, and kind. She welcomed him to her library, and he never wanted to leave. Something did that for him, though. His fragile frame could have snapped in half at how quickly the little man rose to his feet, while his rawboned legs wobbled hard, he forced them to dash forward. The sole of his left shoe, while already peeling off, was wiped clean off from the speed the little man was running at.

The library, once cozy and familiar, had become a maze of darkness, debris and unrecognizable damage.

His only daughter had her mother's eyes. Peony was only a child, young and innocent and undeserving of this tragedy. While his daughter had his unruly ginger hair, she had her mother's eyes: Bright emerald, wide and playful. The memory of his wife had turned to terror for his daughter, he could soon hear her wails of fear, but they seemed to be playing over and over, from everywhere all at once. Running in circles, shelves of his once beloved books flying past him, the fear for his daughter's life and his wife's memory merged in to one. The little man turned a corner, to a dead end, a large pile of books pooling on the ground, and in the corner: A small body. His boring, dark eyes widened at the sight of her. She had his bright orange hair, curly and reaching just past her shoulders. Her pale skin charred and black. Her eyes closed, her face still. The little man held her in his arms, she was so small, just like him, and her body so limp he could hold her like Esmeralda used to when she was just a baby.

He silently begged her to open her eyes, praying for another look into the memory of his wife. However, soon enough, he would search again for another look into some green eyes, to look for the memory of his daughter. He limped out of the burnt building and into the street, the civilians so full of joy and excitement for the holidays. He looked around, but no one stopped to look at the little body in his arms, no one stopped to look at the distraught expression on his little face. The uncontrollable sobs choked out of his mouth again, he screamed into the street, begging for mercy on his haunted soul. He found none.

Half A Year Later.

The little man stood atop a modern building that snaked high into the sky, and he found himself wondering how such luxurious structures could exist while their are people who have never seen or dreamt of one. The building held perhaps a hundred people, they were possibly sleeping, eating, or watching TV or something else, most likely not thinking about how fortunate they are for their lavish lives. The sky held a thousand stars and he heard the crash of something somewhere below him, and a sequence of cursing that followed. A single tear dropped from his eyes as he looked at the wide street below, so oblivious of the world beyond it, so unaware of the issues in society.

The little man's eyes trace the illuminated paths of cars weaving through the labyrinthine streets, like shimmering threads stitching together the fabric of the night. His feelings were at ease as the dark sky loomed over him. He felt, for the first time, not so small. The heartache, the constant pain, the overwhelming emotions and questions he was asked came to a halt on this rooftop. He knew why, but he didn't say it.

That would make it true.

The little man couldn't say that his hands weren't shaking again, even under the excessive sweaters and jackets he wore over his freezing body.

Beside him, the semi-transparent outline of a little girl. She slipped her slim, glowy hand into his. The little man peered over the edge, and then back at her. A small smile appeared on his somber face, however, his eyes still drooped with a hollow sorrow.

"I miss you." The little girl whispered, her bright green eyes blinking innocently. The little man lowered his frame to his knees, looking fondly into her eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened again but no words came out. Instead, he looked away and over the city.

He stared at a tall, creamy coloured building somewhere far away and watched as multiple lights flickered out. He gazed at the distant building for a couple of moments before returning to the rooftop he knelt on.

He was alone.

The little man looked around worriedly, his thoughts churning, where did his daughter disappear to? The warmth of her hand had vanished, leaving his body cold and empty. A small sigh of breathe into the cold air, and he rose to his feet once again.

His legs trembled, bottom lip quivered, but he did not make a sound. Instead, he stepped up to the very edge, his dusty shoes leaning over the edge.

The little man was no longer afraid, or in fact, so little.

This little man did not feel little at all, he felt, well, he didn't feel at all.

The little man could feel the rush of the air carry him down.

The little man could not hear the wailing sirens approaching.

The little man was gone.