With an agonizing scream, Kris wakes up.

He sits upright in the bed, panting heavily, tears in his eyes as he looks around the room. It is dark, pitch black, and he is alone. Of course he is. There is no-one who could be there with him. He buries his face in his hands and starts crying. It’s the dream again. There hasn’t been a single night that he hasn’t had this dream. Not ever since it had happened. Not ever since his wife and his two kids had died in the flames. Since he had failed to protect the people he had loved the most.

He gets up and walks into the bathroom on wobbly legs. He looks into the mirror and if he still were able to feel any emotions besides incredible pain and guilt, he would be scared. Scared of the man looking back at him. He is pale, as pale as death. But he isn’t dead. His family is. Oh, how he wishes he could be dead too. There are dark, dark rings under his eyes, his hair has grown long, longer and he wonders for a short moment, when he has washed it the last time. He also hasn’t shaved in ages and overall, he looks horrible. But he is long past caring. What does it matter what he looks like? He hasn’t left this new apartment for ages; no-one would see him like this and take offense.

He opens the tap and splashes some cold water into his face. It doesn’t help. He stares at his own, now wet, reflection for a few more minutes before he sighs deeply. He wouldn’t be able to get some sleep again. And if he is honest, he doesn’t want to sleep at all. Sleep means that the dream will come back and he isn’t ready for that. Never is. Never will be.

He leaves the bathroom, goes into the living room. The living room. Not his living room. Never his. His living room has burnt down three months ago. Together with his bed, his bathroom and his life. Together with everything. Everything that has been important to him. The apartment he is now forced to live in... It isn’t his and never will be his. He is never going to have a home again.

He turns the lights in the living room on, only to let out a loud yelp and jump back a few feet, wildly looking around for a baseball bat or something, completely ignoring the fact that he doesn’t even possess a baseball bat.

There is someone in the living room.