c. (chreid) wrote,
c.
chreid

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It seemed, at the time, a very good idea to destroy all evidence of having ever known her. She was already on her way over, but this blaze was a quick one and it burned hot and fast, understanding the urgency. The smoky clouds were cleared by the penetrating glare of the full moon, and the scent was absorbed by a bounty of pine. Clean slate.

Later, when she came around for her things and to slaughter the unworthy, run-around swine, she was sore and surprised. Nothingness replaced her remaining belongings. Empty space. No body in the vulnerable, blistering void. No deliciously severed prize-pig tonight. She swung and raised her axe suddenly and lashed out at the supple earth beneath her. With a primitive roar, she split the soil and rendered the merciless exposure of the private confines of anthills and tree roots. The weapon wedged in the ground and mocked her: sharp, tall, upright.

She abandoned the axe. She trudged through the gardens. Collapsed in the car, and finally awoke.
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