Re writing in the psycho style

Joseph Parker
Intro to Creative Writing
Roxanne Carter
Story
Bone creaked and sinew tore as he gripped harder and tighter his arm tearing away at the socket. He groaned as he twisted and contorted trying harder to steady himself, trying harder to hold on. The flames danced higher around the building creating a giant furnace. He felt sweat tear down his brow and fire lick his body. His left hand burned as he clung to the window ledge the heat searing through him like a flaming current. He felt the costume peel away from his body and felt the glove slip from his hand. He stared towards her through the slits in his mask and his heart felt the despair her face bore. Her blonde hair billowed out into the night sky and her white dress hung around her like a torn parachute. Her blue eyes gazed up towards him dazed and helpless as he trembled outstretched between her and the building. With every passing second she inched further through the palm of his hand and a shared fear gripped them both. It was in this moment that he found the last of his waning strength. He heaved the girl upwards towards the open window his hand falling away from the ledge as he dragged her back towards the building. And still those blue eyes stared dazed and helpless but now he was tumbling away. A torn mask, a ripped costume, soot covered boots and a blackened cape; a fallen hero tumbling into the smoke.
Stunned into action the girl sprinted through the crumbling house chased by red flame. She hurled down a creaking staircase and onwards towards the door. She fell helpless into the alley greeted by the eager arms of the waiting crowd and as sirens wailed and help rushed to her side she saw a crumpled figure lying alone besides a flaming building.
Her eyes flicked open wincing against the bright hospital lights. She scoured the room for a familiar face, for the flicker of a smile. It was all but empty, just a rag tag collection of machinery and tubes. It seemed very cold and she was sure there should have been a nurse nearby. Her eyes searched the room one more time, and fell across a solitary newspaper. The headline stood boldly upon the front page, “City mourns its dead savior”. It was a sickening thought, the hero was dead and it was all her fault; she had been his final quest. She checked out of the hospital later that day to glowering looks and an air of bitter resentment. There were no, ‘get well cards’ waiting at her apartment just decaying plants and dusty counter tops. She walked towards the window and for a split second she saw a shimmering figure staring back at her.
The stranger moved quietly towards the apartment entrance way. He swayed a little as he reached for the buzzer. He was swiftly greeted by a nervous voice, “Yes”. He stuttered nervously, “Cyn…Cynthia Cain”. “Yes…who is there”. The anger came flooding back to him; he remembered reading the headline that murky morning, remembered scouring the newspaper for the party responsible, remembered staring teary eyes at the posters that adorned his world. “Wait right there” and with that he plummeted through the apartment doors tearing towards her room his hands clenched into fists, his heart racing. He plowed through the door sending shards of wood bouncing across the floor. He tore towards her bellowing at the top of his lungs, “I loved him”. And Cynthia stood frozen as he came to crashing towards her his t shirt stretched tightly across his gut, and she thought for a second that she saw a signature, a t shirt signed by his hero. He lunged towards her sending them plummeting towards the window and again she was falling but this time there was no hand to grasp hers. And as she drifted towards the earth she thought wistfully of the hero who was both her savior and her demise.