The drought of gossip ended today.

Edna had stayed in the building since the fire for something like 36 hours; she was too busy. She strolled the halls, with the murmurs of worried voices, crying women and dogs, and the yelps of the same ol' crack addicts. She tried to piece it together, the super was counting on her.

No, not counting on her, forcing her - blackmailing her. He had told her that someone had died, and it hadn't been an accident.

"Now figure this shit out before tenets stop moving in."

Sure, people had died in this neighborhood. Plenty of blood had been spilt. But it had never been due to an outside conspirator, or at least that's what she had pieced together so far.

So now Edna made her way through the halls, weaving between the leaking pipes, peeling wallpaper, and other damages she was meant to fix. She had other things to fix. People were talking again, but no one was really saying anything.

What she has gathered so far:

- The paper said it was the librarian.

- No one really cared.

This town was a shit hole, and Edna was just a pawn. She had no goals, no values, no morality. She was a human recorder. Clearly, no one in this town actually cared for the people. She had heard the librarian had not died quietly, but Edna knew she would die in silence, and soon, her secrets overwhelming any original thought.

She was trying to make her way to the rooftop.

The streets were a mess; everyone, the drunk homeless, the firefighters, the owners of every shop in town were shuffling around screaming. No one could move more than an inch in a minute. The flames reflected in every single person's eyes back at me.

Edna had been at the library, reading up on her suspicions of the man on the roof. She had gone in partially blind, hoping the sucker of a librarian wouldn't question her motives, searching and searching through the stacks for any glimpse of the word. She thought nothing of the questionable noises she heard outside - breaking glass, screams - the men in the alley supplied enough similar noises everyday to numb her to them.

After a few hours of fruitless search, she made her way back onto the streets to find the chaos. She hardly recognized the street. The prostitutes, normally posted up hollering for business, were drunkenly writhing under the flash of tourist's camera (why there were tourists? - that was the last thing on her mind.) The screams she had heard had seemed harmless; now the sheer volume made her cover her ears. Everything, the fire hydrants, the broken storefronts, the broken people, glowed in the blazing night.

As she walked, or harassed, her way towards her home, her eyes remained focused on Wilshire Tower. She had too much on her mind to process the fires, the alcohol, the fucking crazy people. She had to get to the roof.

Edna squeezed through the crowd, smashing on broken bottles left by fleeing idiots. At one point, her foot landed on something soft, not glass-like. There was blood covering his face, his eyes were shut, and there was a strangle pleasant expression written on his face. This town could care less about the ones it killed, she thought, as her finally made her way to her front door, I could care less about the ones I killed. She needed the roof; she knew he'd be there.

She rode the elevator anxiously, staring wistfully at the ceiling, imagining the object of her curious desire resting on the building's edge, staring. She didn't love him; this wasn't a normal emotion. She was transfixed by his power.

Edna slowly pried the door open and stared.

"I know who you are," she said carefully, as not to reveal to much.

"I know."

Oh hell. "I know what you are," Edna blurted. If she was wrong, she was probably dead. If she was right... she was probably dead. But she walked forward, unaware of what was to happen next.