"You don't understand!" He shouted to the room crowded with his evaluators.

"We do NOT carry the weight if the world on our shoulders. That was YOUR generation!"-his breath hitches and his face grows red with frustration-"You carried that weight until you realized that you didn't have to. Until you realized that you could just blame someone else."

He pauses. His eyes and fists are clenched. His shoulders shake.

"WE WERE CHILDREN!" He screams, voice hoarse and grating,"CHILDREN DAMMIT!"

His eyes open, only to stare blankly at the fuzzy figures. His shoulders drop and he leans against the wall.

"You didn't want to carry it, so you threw it into a fire. And now it settles in our lungs with the smoke and smog and suffocates us. Look around you. See what you've done. The fire burned beautifully didn't it?"

He stands up straight again. An empty smile on his face, a vacant tear in his eye. He takes a shaking step forward. And then another.

"Are you proud?" He asks in a whisper, "Are you proud of your little wheezing monsters?"

The officials simply look on. Simply observe, until-

"Code seven. He'll have to be in solitary. No parole. Too dangerous."

The boy looks at the ground as his eyes, tear, and hopes fall,"Tell me," he says, causing the officials to turn once more, clipboards at the ready,"you get a lot of arsonists in here right? I always heard that they felt remorse for their crimes. Are you even half as sorry as them? Or has the fire burnt that too?"

Now of course, there was no answer. The officials observed, noted, and prepared to report. Because that is what officials do. They are not authorized to converse with the insane.