Shoulders hunched, he sticks his hands deeper into his pockets as he stares at the spot where he had found her wasted, lifeless body; a broken crack pipe clutched to her breast. Only a chalk outline remains of the vibrant, hopeful girl he remembered.
Gray light filters through a filthy window, washing the color from the trash filled room. It stinks of gasoline.
“This is where your dreams died,” he thinks as he pulls his hand from his pocket. It holds a plain white matchbook.”Whump” of gasoline. He never looks back at the burning crack house—pyre to the fallen.