The City Burning Eternal

Prologue= -written by lilly mara-

London is no longer London, as far as I am concerned; stood here in the ruin of the city, the burning ruins with the acrid smell of petroleum stinging my nose. Even the air is polluted with the ghost of war, a war that has long since ended, but it has left deep wounds, deep, bleeding wounds. Unfortunately, the rest of the world is naive, believing there to be only scars in the great city, but there is no great city anymore - only a dumpster of old scaffolding, ancient circus posters, rusting metal and flames. Endless flames.

Nobody believed that such a thing could happen; the pompous self confidence all of us had standing strict and tall throughout the threats and curses we exchanged. Threats and curses - no peace talks, because we didn't think they could touch our power, come close to what we could do, even if they were extraterrestrial. Before we could even blink, in the moment we were most vulnerable, the most arrogant, they hit out. They came, vicious and merciless in their assault, seeking revenge for our restriction of them to their violet skies, their barren space; it was obvious they weren't taking their revenge lightly.

No documents of the war exist - all that were ever made burned and destroyed, or forgotten. Not that there were many documents to begin with - most of us hardly knew what we were facing, as we were incinerated before we saw what they looked like, or comprehended their hissing communications. Most of us - the ones of us that were normal, if you believe in any particular definition of the word. Naturally, there were those of us who weren't. Those of us who interacted, those of us resistant to their fire. Who were able to stand in the fire, stand in the face of adversity as resolute as before.

We know that this is because we were born of the fire, even if we don't know how or why. Pyromaniacs, as individuals, like them, our yearning for the fire lustful and desperate. Some of our number deserted us, to the dark side, getting their hands dirty to try and throw them out - get rid of their 'distasteful' presence. It only left us with new oppressors, those who wanted to control us, to harness us - to deal with the intertwined destinies of us and the creatures, to face the inevitable.

Now, we merely live in a caged environment; as if we are the zoo animals - with a do not feed the animals sign shown prominently. After a while, the creatures merely left us behind; giving up on us, leaving London the city burning eternal. London's burning, London's burning, fetch the engines, fetch the enginces...fire fire... One= -written by lilly mara-

Flames jump from my fingers again as I remember them - who they were, and why they were here - and why they took everything from me. Yet, I don't feel any contempt whatsoever, even though I should, I'm sure of it, and I feel somewhat guilty that I do not. Can I force myself to feel anything? Probably not - I can feign contempt, but I cannot convince myself that I feel it. The heart knows genuinely what I feel, my emotions dictated by myself and only myself - and I cannot lie to myself. To even try to do so would be ludicrous - so even if they were responsible for the ruins, the death, and the loss of my family, I find myself with no feelings to do with them whatsoever. No hatred, no love - merely emptiness.

Sometimes, I feel like something's different - I write still, as I did, in an underground bunker just outside the borders of the ruined city, but it's not the same. Barren wasteland - no newspapers to write for, no roaring of cars, all of them molten metal still bubbling on the ground, scalded by the heat. But most of all, no people to correspond with - all charred, all cremated, all scattered to the wind. Gone. Apart from a few - and we are fearful of each other, keeping to our own private buisness. Not me; I'm not fearful, but I'm not willing to leave myself out in the open without a gun either. Russian roulette is not the same without a gun, after all, and the game of survival is, be all and end all, a game. Before I knew it, I could have the shovel to the base of my head - an end without screaming, but an end all the same.

Walking to the mirror is an effort, even with the amount of stock I have now. My hand, always wrapped firm around the cold metal of the gun I am holding, is slick with sweat, and I can see it barely clutches it now. I don't appear tired, and that I am glad of - that I could keep my youth and beauty, somehow, despite the flames that dance on my fingers now. They almost make me....more beautiful. Devious, ready to face whatever is ahead of me. Then again, I'm not exactly devious; I just know what I want, like the intrepid reporter, or the machiavellian politician. Now that I look at it, I am an enigma, most likely - a mixture of all colours, with no fixed ethical code or personality - very much in an unstable state of being, and that makes me dangerous. I am not scared of myself, but people have cause to be scared of me, as I am scared for them. Not of, for.

Do I have an identity anymore? Probably not, because I mean nothing to anyone, not even to myself any longer. Everyone who may have cared for me is long, long gone - so I should make myself a new self that I do care for. If just so that I can mean something to myself, if not to anyone else, when there is so much I wish to forget. So that I can choose myself - choose the name I will carry with me. And so I choose the name Anonymous, as a symbol of the fact that nobody will ever know me, ever. No matter how close they get to me, they will never understand me - because I have trouble understanding myself, let alone letting other people in. Obviously, I'll have to lie as to the name, but the real reason for it will always lie behind the emotional sparkles in my eyes, in my heart.

Somewhere, my old self will be out there - haunting me, reminding me of my past. Every time I remember her, I snap her neck in my hands, because I can feel her reaching out for mine. Such naivete, that I can't afford to hold onto. Such pain, such hurt, such tragedy, that I just wish to remain numb to. I was never happy the way I was before, not after the fight; inside, I knew that I was no longer the girl that was so willing to fall to her knees in surrender, to be consumed and swallowed. Now, I know that I need to be remembered, not just the pale, ghost-like figure who wandered down urban streets at night, mumbling hellos with the feeble waves that accompanied them. Now, I know that I need to be bolder, louder; that girl whose opinion is heard, who isn't bound by rules, laws or anything. I can be the girl of the fire, the girl I was destined to be.

Anonymous.