I stared at my room. My books. All my belongings. Burning. A fire was destroying my house. And there was nothing I could do about it. I felt like crying. Because all of this was my fault. I light a match and then dropped it. The fire spread throughout the house. How could something so tiny be so destructive? My parents say it isn't my fault. I know they're lying just to make my feel better. Every single second of watching my house burn is excruciating. I hear the deafening siren of the fire truck. Then, I cry.