For a story

It's funny the things you remember when you're about to die.

For me, it's the time I was maybe five or six, waiting for my mother to finish one of her endless conversations with the elevator security guard at the Central Library.  The library was a massive steel building, with a sprawling floor plan and sky-high spires, modeled after the one back on Earth that got destroyed in the latter half of the twentieth century.

At least that's what they tell me.

I met a boy there - he might have been my height and he might have had a name - but what I remember most was his hair. It was a sandy golden color and hung down into his eyes, and when he turned away from me there was a perfect curl that disappeared into the back of his coat. Winter doesn't last long here, but even in summer, even in the climate-controlled colonies, the air always has a chill that seeps into your bones and leaves you feeling damp and clammy. The red sand storms knock out the power to the central atmospheric system at least twice a week, anyway.

We were both waiting for our guardians by the Earth kiosk - a machine that was twice as tall as I was and showed you pictures of historic locations on the home planet. I remember giggling until our bellies were sore; there was a city on the old planet called Flushing and all we could do was mime flushing toilets for an endless amount of time.

I don't remember if he had a mother who came to get him. I don't remember if he had a mother at all.

The only thing I can focus on now is the sensation of burning heat, creeping up my arms until I think my skin is melting off, and I open my eyes.

I am on fire.