The ends of his knees are red where his skin presses into the fibers of this worn rug. With every breath he exhales, the glass pane in the door fogs up, a blanket between him and reality. His cheeks are pink and his nose is cold, and yet he sits there looking, hoping, waiting. His pudgy fingers draw smiles in the condensation, and yet he can't seem to bring one to his own face. You see, his hero leaves footprints in the snow, but all of them lead away.
Every step makes a muffled crunch, because something in this universe has to reflect the sound little hearts make when they break. Like knuckles that will crack no more, at what point does a heart give up hope? Even the most delicate, like snowflakes, will turn to ice when stepped on hard enough.
His hair is damp and it sticks to his forehead. While his face is young, his eyes have grown old and this winter's day will leave a chill in him forever. He pushes himself up, off the ground. As he walks away, the glass pane recovers. There is nothing left but some smudged fingerprints that, like a secret code, are only visible when the light strikes just right.
He takes a lighter from the kitchen cupboard, the long one they use for the grill, and heads off to his room. He never thinks of hurting himself. Nothing could pain him more than those footprints that are half-filled again with new snow. He takes a string that has been loose on his bed and he begins. He looks like a cherub there as he concentrates, biting his lip ever so slightly. His foot falls asleep and the tingles crawl up his leg, but the execution has been started. The execution must go on.
He takes the lighter in his hand and flicks it, just like his father taught him. The flame dances and bows as it takes the stage. The fire licks his offering like an ice cream cone, and the string he wound so carefully is the best of messenger boys. The secrets of fire trail along the path and when it hits the bedpost, the fire sings a high whistle. The show has started and little drops start to land against the carpet. They are blue and red and green as faces melt off and weapons wilt.
The boy curls up on his bed with his stuffed animals and they, the audience, clap for the show. Some spectacles last too long, and with that and the smoke, this little boy dozes off. The alarms can't wake him any more than his mother's screams. When the firemen find him, he lies next to a grave of blue and red and green. In the pile of melted plastic, a sad blob remains. The Hulk grimaces as if he still suffers at the stake. He is the last survivor of those who melted away, caught in the fire of a little boy's heartache when he realized that all heroes will at some point walk away.
