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luda
Guest
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« on: October 24, 2007, 09:39:15 PM » |
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The night was heavily silent. In the depths of the forest, the only sound that could be heard was the splatter of blood and brains, showering dead trees. A face paled. Honey golden eyes glazed over. A body collapsed. It was only a moment’s time before her ears plugged again from the pressured quiet. She needed noise.
Arynne took the gasoline and dumped it haphazardly on the child. The splashing of the gas, rustling of the matchbox, the flicking of the match, the roar of the flames, the sparking and crackling of dead leaves; she swam in the sound waves.
Peach fuzzed skin of the child’s round face fell limp towards the ground, melting away. She could see where her daughter’s eyes once rested, holes gaping in her direction. Egg shaped pits, up turned in the center, down turned on the sides, permanently pleading.
Arynne’s strength fails her, she falls onto her knees. So great was her shame that she had no voice for apology. So great was her shame that her own life and limbs were repulsed by her action. She cannot stop the repeating visual of events: her hand, her gun, her child. Her hand, her gun, her child. Her hand, her g-
The air shifted violenty. The soft crackle of flames was eaten away by the distant pounding of hooves and the beating of wings. Wildlife came in hordes from every direction, flying, gliding, jumping, crawling, slithering, walking. They came and they halted, staring in awe. Side by side stood predator and prey, surrounding Arynne and the growing pyre. A mecca of mourning beasts.
I have saved her, she tells herself, I will not mourn.
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