And With A Strike I Could Play God
[title] And With A Strike I Could Play God
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] Unbeta'ed. Any mistakes are my own fault.
[fandom] Original
[rating] G
[word count] 171
[summary] All the doors are locked, and she has thrown the keys away.
[warnings] Angst. Hints of fire.
[author's notes] Written to get rid of all my demons. I hope you enjoy it! Title from MWK's song Undertow, which I do not own nor claim either.
The stash of letters glares at her from the center of the room. She sniffs, feeling new tears welling up in the back of her eyes. She knows she should have gotten rid of all those memories long ago, but the wound is still fresh and it itches, and hurts, and she has got used to the pain by now.
There is a box of matches mocking her from the coffee table as she turns around and rushes off to the den. She ravishes the column of CDs and cassettes, finding what she's looking for and then she comes back to the living room, arms full of stock she drops on top of all the letters. Everything that reminds her of what she was, of how happy she had become, is now trash to be burned. She lights up one match and throws it to the pile. She stays still, staring at the flames dancing a sensuous, flirting dance.
All the doors are locked, and she has thrown the keys away.
[author] Lire Casander
[beta] Unbeta'ed. Any mistakes are my own fault.
[fandom] Original
[rating] G
[word count] 171
[summary] All the doors are locked, and she has thrown the keys away.
[warnings] Angst. Hints of fire.
[author's notes] Written to get rid of all my demons. I hope you enjoy it! Title from MWK's song Undertow, which I do not own nor claim either.
The stash of letters glares at her from the center of the room. She sniffs, feeling new tears welling up in the back of her eyes. She knows she should have gotten rid of all those memories long ago, but the wound is still fresh and it itches, and hurts, and she has got used to the pain by now.
There is a box of matches mocking her from the coffee table as she turns around and rushes off to the den. She ravishes the column of CDs and cassettes, finding what she's looking for and then she comes back to the living room, arms full of stock she drops on top of all the letters. Everything that reminds her of what she was, of how happy she had become, is now trash to be burned. She lights up one match and throws it to the pile. She stays still, staring at the flames dancing a sensuous, flirting dance.
All the doors are locked, and she has thrown the keys away.