circumitus: 10 stitches. scar on forehead. totally going tell ppl my parents died fighting Voldemort. (fell off bed. face first.)
Reybama ([personal profile] circumitus) wrote 2013-09-30 12:31 am (UTC)

the ring of fire (tw: implied sexual assault)

It’s such a gray day, but there are no clouds. No sun, no moon, no stars. Only gray, stuck in the empty skies. The pale fields reflect this. The dawning silence stretches outward. She watches the fields from the open car window, a breeze breathing through her gold hair.

Born to die, she is but a vessel. She is nothing.

He calls her FREYJA.

Come away with me, he had said. He wooed her with wicked words, which led her astray from the underground home where she was born.

Men do not create gods, she thinks. She thinks, but does not speak.

The man in the driver’s seat moves, while she does not. His hand brushes over her knee, sliding towards her inner thigh. She is motionless. He frowns, and brings his hand back to the steering wheel.

Red and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror. He tips his hat as three cruisers drive around them, and take off down the highway.





The pillow pushes over her face. She twists and finds herself pinned to the motel bed. His weight pushes against her; she can’t see his face, can’t see anything at all but she knows he’s there, heart hammering in his ribs and skin hot. Her hand reaches up, lying flat on his chest but unable to apply the force needed to free herself.

Several minutes pass. The minutes become much longer than killing a person this way merits. He knows better than anyone that she is not really a person, and he does not intend to kill her.

Her intentions are not mutual.

The bed catches fire. She listens to his prolonged wailing, playing like an aria from a man who has all that he deserves.

The room burns. The wallpaper peels, the floorboards give way, the rooftop caves in. The sleazy motel, the sleazy people inside and all of their sleazy things crumble into smoke and flame...

It’s over now. This cycle has ended.





There will be talk of a woman walking by the Mojave highway, naked and on fire.

At dusk, her father finds her. After putting out the flames that eat at her but never burn her flesh, he asks what happens, but receives no answer.

He picks her from the ground and carries her away.

This man is her creator, and a creator knows what’s best: The creation is a hopeless cause. She will be subjected to termination. If given a choice, which she does not have, she would have agreed.

But she will not die.

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