From a distance, it looked like a pile of bedding that had been set alight. Then a head peered through the top of the fiery mattress.
Incredibly, arms flailed weakly from the inferno. Not a scream. Not a whisper. Not a word.
“He’s still alive!”
Shame on you, my people.
Is not your own anguish, your own suffering, still within living memory?
What the fuck do you think you’re doing?