Hope stands before the fireplace. Watching it all burn. And burn. Seeing the flames darken each time she adds to the fire. The flames leap up to catch all Hope adds.

One photograph after another is pitched into the flames. They burn. And burn. With all the rest of it.

All Hope's childhood photographs ignite. And disintegrate as she watches calmly. Letting everything go. Her empty baby album burns next. Empty except for the formal announcement of her birth. With her parent's names printed for all their friends to read of the new addition.

Every photo now gone. Except one. Hope saves only one photo. That one was always her favorite. With her mother wearing a beautiful blacket velvet dress. Her long pearls. And matching pearl earrings.

She looked just like Jackie Kennedy in that photo.

A colleague of Hope's father. At Doubleday.

One photo saved. Like Hope.

Saved now.

From any further pain. No more bruises on her arms to cover up with long sleeves.

No more bruises on her heart from too many sharp words. Thrown at Hope. Again and again.

No more being ignored. And made to feel unwanted.

All done now.

Hope takes the photo album that her father assembled haphazardly with photos he thought were of her as a baby. Those photos Hope gave to Faith long ago.

Hope smiles at the joke. Knowing her own father couldn't recognize her. Never did. Never saw her for who she really is.

Not wanting to keep anything--even photos--her father touched. Or put his hands on. Like he did to his own daughter.

Hope pulls away the pages of the album. Burns them one by one. Then the cover. Then the back. Then the binding. All pitched into the flames.

All gone now.

All done now.

Hope watches it all burn. And burn. And smiles.

As one tear falls.

On the flames.

As Hope sets fire to the rain.