I sit in a bed, cross-legged, staring into a pitch black doorway. I'm sitting in a blank room, four white, barren walls connected into a square with a bed placed perfectly in the middle and a doorway strategically placed across from it. I cannot feel, I cannot hear, I cannot move. I can see. I can see as the illuminating lights lower to a dark dim. I can see as the walls start to melt, their remains forming a white puddle on the wooden floor. I can see as the doorway closes, removing my only escape. I can see as the ceiling caves in, the lights crashing and shattering on the floor, melting. Suddenly, I can feel. Suddenly, my skin starts to burn. Suddenly, I'm melting. Melting like the walls. Melting like the people who appear in front of me. Melting like the doorway, and the ceiling, and the walls, and the people, the victims. Suddenly, I'm melting like my victims in my pyromaniac crimes. Suddenly, the victims I once melted, were melting me too.