The world was on fire.
At first Winny had thought it felt like a dream, but it now didn't. It was starting to feel more like fear and smoke, and soot, all crawling and clawing and crawling again, with phantom fingers, down his throat and making him choke as he ran, away from the fire . . .
The fear was the strongest, and he knew it'd be what would cause him to choke to the death, but he couldn't stop it - he wouldn't stop it. The knowing was enough, most people didn't get that much. But he wasn't grateful. What use was the knowledge of his death, if he was going to die anyway?
The world was on fire, and Winny was choking on fear. And, though, Fear had it's fingers tight in a death grip around Winny's neck, he kept running from the fire . . . And not Fear. It was a familiar companion now, and he almost didn't notice- didn't want to notice- it was going to kill him, and not the fire. Fear was killing him, but Winny kept running, running away from the fire . . .
The world was on fire.
Fear was on the world.