If I had a pile of wealth my problems would burn away. I could do so much with such money but first I swear I would replace that ancient TV; it can only speak in sizzling static. 

The tv hisses suddenly. throwing me off balance. "The police have confirmed that this apartment once again was attacked by an arsonist." I knew it was coming; I had seen the building on the way here. And the arsonist has become a common topic in my neighborhood.

"Maybe I should treat the news like a documentary." 

All documentaries are bad. I have never seen a good documentary. Ever since I saw that documentary on how hot dogs are made. That turned me into a freakin' vegan and every other documentary is bad. All of them. 

Every other documentary makes me mad or sad or terrified or squeamish. The one about modern day slavery made me feel sympathetic and helpless. Those poor kids. The ones about CIA coups made me feel distrustful of this country. Why would America do that? And the one about Vincent Van Gogh just bummed me out. So I stopped watching all documentaries. The news may be next.

I sigh. "I've got to go to work."

The news continues to talk about the arsonist.

"It's shocking how someone can be so lacking in sympathy and so horrible as to want to serve suffering onto others."

  -Voice-

Spike has to speed to work as he spent too much time watching TV. He scurries there. getting his uniform on the way. Luckily, he enters the building on time. Despite his lateness Spike is studious as he works. He sits down quickly and works hard and fast. He doesn't know what it is he does though. 

He knows how long he works and how much he gets for it: 8 hours a day, 16 bucks a hour. But he could not say why he works. What he does know is what it is he does; he enters data: names, phone numbers, etc. Why, though? He doesn't know.

He spends most of his time doing nothing of consequence. He finishes his work in the first hour and has to simply wait for the day to end after the next 7 hours simply pretending to work. 

One thing he wants to do is tell his boss that he has nothing to do. He would say "I have nothing to do. Either give me something or let me go home!"

Followed by a "sorry for yelling." even though he barely raised his voice. But because he needs the money but also because his boss would yell at him. Pretending to work is a simple way to stop his boss from screaming at him.

  -Spike-

I slid the door open slowly. 

When did I get home? Did I walk or drive? I can't remember the trip back home. Work is a blur, probably because I didn't talk to anyone again. I want to talk to people but the problem is that people are terrifying. 

"Maybe if I could talk to anyone I could get a girlfriend," I sigh. 

Social anxiety, my mother called it. But she couldn't afford a therapist or psychiatrist and I cannot now. So I was never treated and likely will never be. I am amazed I could get past the job interview. 

She tried to work me through it herself, though. She would try to get me to talk to people, but she died before anything worked out. She couldn't even save enough to send me to college.

"I'm 22, not in college, no friends, no parents. Why am I still alive?" 

…

That smell. Is that smoke? Are they smoking again?

Don't they know that is not allowed in this apartment complex? I'll have to talk to the landlord. 

Actually the thought of me talking to the landlord is laughable. I'll stammer for miles before I even gotta talk about them smoking. Whatever, it's just smoking, what is there to worry about?" 

the fire alarm goes off and blares through my ears. It takes me a second to realize what is happening. False alarm? An accident? The arsonist? Thoughts of this being an accident leave my mind with the sound of crackling and screaming. I need to get out. 

  -Voice-

He gets up and runs to the door and stops and remembers something irreplaceable in this home: pictures of his mother. He cannot stop to think about it. So he simply runs towards his room where he keeps his pictures of his mother and grabs them. Before running out of the room and towards the door.

He needs to leave fast but feels faint. It's carbon monoxide, the poison from smoke.

He trips on something. And when he looks at his pant leg he sees the bottom of his pants are on fire. The sight is unreal but the pain is so real. He drops the pictures and remembers 3 words: stop, drop, and roll.

First he stops in place. Then he lays on the ground in a ball. And finally he rolls back and forth. Until the fire on his pant leg goes out. 

He looks at his leg. happy the fire is out. Then the floor gives out from under him.

He tries to crawl out of the dip in the floor but it just collapses, dropping him on his leg. Breaking that leg. 

The pain is unbearable but he must leave. He looks back and forth at the flaming walls. He tries to limp away but he is lit aflame again.

  -Spike-

The apartment is filled with muffled screams as I suffocate and burn to death.