Here is a short story about war where a journalist suffers a terrible fate.
“Please, I’m just a journalist” he said as his captors threw him into a dirt hole. He stood to his feet and raised his hands which had been bound with rope, he pleaded, “Please, I-I have no side in this. I’m no threat to you.”
They rolled a barrel towards the dirt hole and pried open the lid with a crowbar then tipped it over. A gush of gasoline poured out, its smell tickled his nostrils.
Knee deep in gasoline, he pleaded again, “P-please! I have a wife and a three-year-old son!” But, his cry was ignored.
He tried to climb out using his elbows, but a boot shoved his shoulder throwing him back into the pool of gasoline. His clothes, his face, and eyes were drenched and like thick grease it clung to his skin. He spat out the liquid which entered his mouth.
Tears flowed from his burning eyes. He watched them strike the match and with one flick, it flew into the dirt hole.
Rapidly, the flame traveled from his knees to his chest spreading out to his fingertips then consuming his scalp. He screamed as his entire body stung from the heat. He thrashed from side to side, but nothing could stop his skin from boiling and melting apart; slowly, his flesh tore away from his muscles. The pool of gasoline began to boil, he lost feeling in his legs and fell to his knees. He began gasping for air and with his hands engulfed in flames he touched his chest feeling the pressure build.
He welcomed death. He wanted to suffocate and bring an end to the pain.
The Daily Post Prompt: Flames