Flame.

There were eight of them, eight souls bound together by the ties of trial and error. Eight individuals whose lives had been interwoven by the tests of high school and the instability that resulted. Each was a crucial part of an intricate formula, perfectly balanced and priceless in value.

There were seven of them, one was gone. Their leader had thrown himself away. Troubled by the pressure of leading a group and taking responsibility all the time, he took his own life. It wasn't the group that killed him, but the group was his last bastion; it saw his demise. The pressures that associated themselves with the senior year of high school weighed deep on his shoulders, and the thought of losing his group pushed him over the edge. So, in a way, the group did kill him.

There were six of them. The first to leave after the event did so wholly because of the event. She was the diplomat. She had loved him, and his death showed her that he felt no such thing. Desperate for attention, she began doing drugs in large amounts and tried to drink in a social environment, all to recreate that feeling of togetherness. Before long, she found herself completely dissociated with her former friends. They were dead to her, even more than he was.

There were six of them. The depart of the group's internal therapist saw the return of its diplomat. The two of them had never gotten along very well, as the therapist dated the leader for a while, and never let the diplomat forget it. And with their therapist gone, the circle needed all of the internal support that it could get.

There were four of them. The diplomat had driven away the comedian. No longer would the nights be filled with tears of laughter, the rest of them stayed together on negative emotion alone. Truth be told, there were five of them. Twice. Shortly after the departure of the comedian, the diplomat died of alcohol poisoning or an overdose, they never bothered to get the coroner's official report. The demise of the diplomat saw the return of the comedian, who tried his best to cheer up his friends. But the comedian's own agenda came first, and his contempt of the diplomat caused the group to shun him.

There were three of them. The artist abandoned the sinking ship before it was too late. She saw the tragic ending from miles away and tried her best to rescue her comrades from the fate that was in store for them. Acting upon self-interest, the artist tried to help as an outside affiliate. It was there that the group saw its end. It was over, they were just too oblivious to notice it.

There were two of them. The guardian said nothing. He stopped communicating with them entirely, and simply sought to rekindle old friendships. They never heard from him again.

There was only one remaining. She was faithful. Every year she sent cards and tried to reconcile the group, and every year she failed. The communicator left her because everyone else had, and he felt no guilt doing so. But she was the peacemaker, she was the forgiving one, and she was the angel. Every now and then, she would visit her leader's grave, just to make sure that it was tended to. She remained out of guilt: the leader had swallowed all of her pills.