Burning

When walking in a desert, knowing you won't live, what to do you think about?

It hurts. Scalding hot water on my skin. Life flames through my veins. That’s what it feels like at least.

Walking for miles on end, no water, no shelter, nothing. Nothing to keep me away from the over-sized star in the sky. Burns your skin, changing color. First a light tan, then russet brown, then bright crimson; it tells you your burning alive.

You could rather throw flaming wood in me; it wouldn't be any better than the torture of rays gleaming down on you.

I could cover my skin but it would burn through. I need help, anything.

Would a branding iron be any better? Would it make any difference to the heat on my skin?

I don't see how, I see it all as the same heat, the same flames, the same burning.

I see a dark cloud ahead. Rain? Maybe. I wish I were that lucky.

I take a step. Then another, and another, and another. I try my fifth, and stumble. I watch the ground come towards me, the extra pain added over the heat.

I stare along the flat ground, waiting.

All goes black.

The pain is gone, the heat has dissipated. I feel nothing, see nothing; I wanted nothing more than this. Nothing more than the burning to subside.

Author's Note

Another try at descriptive writing. Not my best, yet not my worst. Review please, good or CONSTRUCTIVE criticizm (I so spelled that wrong) only. Enjoy!