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miles3855 · 4 years

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The Tracker

Sam Paxton rode his horse slowly into the alley. It was a beautiful clear day in April, the grass lush and thick under the horse's hooves, the sun already high in the purest of blue skies. But there was nothing but sadness in Sam's heart, for this day he would have to kill a young man he liked and admired.

Adam Corbett, the man Sam hunted, had turned twenty-one only the month before, and seemed even younger with his innocent blue eyes, clean-shaven face and curly, shoulder-length brown hair. Adding to his youthful appearance was his incurable habit of kicking off his boots wherever and whenever he could, and traipsing around in his sock feet. Some of the men on Old Man McCune's ranch ragged him for it, called him the Barefoot Boy, but Sam--the ranch foreman--never did.

The ribbing was mostly good-natured, for Adam was the best-liked hand on the ranch, kind and friendly as well as superbly skilled. In his twenty years as a cowboy Sam had never seen a man so young who was such a good hand at riding, roping, breaking broncos, and doing whatever came to hand. Adam was even more popular with the ladies than the me, and that more than anything was what had gotten Billy McCune's blood up.

Billy McCune was a rat. There was no other way to put it. Four times Billy had gunned down men and claimed self-defense. Because, conveniently, there were never any witnesses, and because Old Man McCune. Billy's father, was the richest man in the territory, Billy had always got off scot-free

Billy wanted to make Adam the fifth notch in his gun. But Billy, an incorrigible drunk, misjudged his man fatally.

It had been only last evening, at the Georgia Belle saloon. Adam was at a table, boots off as usual, and one of the saloon girls--one Adam and Billy both favored--was rubbing Adam's white-socked feet and making sweet talk to him. Billy, a full bottle of whiskey in his gut, stood up suddenly, called Adam a pansy, said his feet were stinking up the place, and ordered him to draw.

But Adam, who was better at most things than Billy, was also a faster draw and a better shot--even sitting at a table with his stockinged feet in a girl's lap. Also, Adam wasn't a heavy drinker.

The sheriff hadn't even bothered to arrest Adam; more than a dozen witnesses swore it was self-defense, and anyway everyone loved Adam and hated Billy. Everyone except Old Man McCune. Billy had been his only child, and the old man was as mean as Billy and even more ruthless. Adam didn't have to be told even once to get out of town as soon as he could get his boots on and mount a horse.

The old man, as soon as he had heard of Billy's death, had presented Sam with a proposition: a flat five thousand dollars to go out alone, hunt Adam down, and kill him. If Sam didn't agree, he would hire a posse from out of town to kill Adam--and they would be considerably less delicate about Adam's feelings.

The old man accomplished several things with this proposition. He knew Sam was over a thousand dollars in debt from poker games at the Georgia Belle, so he couldn't rightly refuse such a lucrative offer. He also knew Sam was particularly fond of Adam, so there was the double motive of testing Sam's loyalty and sadism at forcing Sam to kill a buddy.

Sam, for his own part, not only desperately needed the money, but also knew that if he didn't take the old man's offer, there would be an even larger bounty on his own head.

As he rode along that morning, Sam thought bitterly that McCune could have sent a heifer from his herd to find Adam, as difficult as the job would be. Adam--for all his skill with a gun--had a trusting, naïve nature, and knew nothing of outlaws' tricks. It would be pathetically easy to find Adam, if not necessarily to outdraw him.

And, sure enough, Adam was right where Adam thought he would be. There was a hillside in the valley that sloped gently to the river, where a small grove of live oaks and a tiny mountain stream flowing through. This was Adam's secret place, of which only Sam knew.

Adam's horse was tethered to one of the oaks, grazing peacefully. Adam himself was sprawled under the tree, fast asleep, his hat over his eyes. His six-gun was to his right, his boots to his left, and one white-socked foot was crossed over the other.

Sam felt cold disgust at the sight of Adam sleeping. Didn't he realize the sort of danger he faced? But with that came a feeling of unbearable sadness. Adam was so innocent of heart--he couldn't conceive of a world where his best friend would be coming to kill him.

Sam rode up softly. The horses nickered at each other, but Adam didn't wake. Sam dismounted, tethered his own horse, and walked over to Adam, gun in hand. Sam loathed the thought of shooting any man, even one he hated, who was asleep, or had his boots off. Neither of these would happen to Adam!

He knelt at Adam's stockinged feet; the outline of Adam's toes was sharp and perfect on his stocking soles. Same tickled Adam's foot with the gun barrel.

Adam woke with a start and sat upright, reaching for his gun. Sam fired at the gun, hitting it, knocking it out of Adam's reach. Adam stared at Sam, flushed, not speaking.

Sam stared back at Adam, pointing the gun at his head, cocking the trigger. "You know the rules, Adam," he said, his voice trembling. "You knew the old man would send somebody after you, and when you think about it, it was an act of kindness he sent me. And you know if I don't kill you, he'll kill me."

After the initial shock, Adam looked less fearful than hurt, like a little boy who had been betrayed. Tears started to leak from his eyes, but his gaze was steady, and he did not speak.

"Come on, Adam," Sam said, his voice not unkind. "Pull your boots on, and stand up. I won't shoot you sittin' on the ground."

Adam continued to stare at Sam silently. His face, though tears were streaming down it, was brave and resolute.

"Stand up, Adam!" Sam said, more roughly. "Get your boots on!"

"No." Adam's voice was calmer than Sam's. Always a handsome boy, he looked angelically beautiful at that moment.

"I won't kill you like this, damn it! You can either die with your boots on like a man, or in your sock feet like a pansy-ass!"

"I've lived with my boots off, and I'll die with 'em off," Ada said, sitting at the base of the tree, his voice quiet but hard. 'If you're goin' to kill me, kill me like you found me!"

"Stand UP! Get 'em ON!"

Adam gazed at Sam, blinking back tears. Softly, he began to speak. "Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...:

Sam was in a blind fury. Not know or caring what he was doing, he dropped his gun, still kneeling, grabbed one of Adam's boots, and tried to force it on the wrong foot. "GET YOUR BOOTS ON, DAMN YOU!" he yelled. Adam tried to pull his foot away, screaming with rage.

Sam lost his grip on Adam's boot, which plopped to the ground. Sam stared wildly at Adam's foot, the strong young toes flailing in the soft white sock. The sock seemed brand-new and clean. Everything about Adam seemed brand-new and clean, even when he did the dirtiest jobs at the ranch, like mucking out the stables or pulling a calf from a mudhole.

Sam wondered why, all of a sudden, his vision was blurring. Staring at Adam's foot in his hands, he stroked it gently, then kissed it.

Adam stopped struggling; he now began to sob audibly. Sam caressed the foot, gently kissing each toe, breathing in the faint smell of dried sweat. Adam felt Sam's handlebar mustache tickle his toes, and involuntarily let out a gasp of pleasure through his tears.

The other hands at the McCune ranch had always laughed at Adam's sock feet, but Sam had always found them endearing; now they seemed considerably more than that. Feeling the warm flesh and wiggling toes through the sock, Sam suddenly felt a wave of emotion like he hadn't felt since a girl had known back in Arkansas, a girl who died...

Still kneeling, Sam dropped Adam's foot and buried his face in his hands. He realized he could no more kill Adam than himself--knowing full well that to let Adam live was the same thing as killing himself. This was still racing through his brain when he heard two guns click above his head...

Adam stood over him, pointing his own gun and Sam's straight at Sam's head.

"Now YOUR boots," he snarled. "YOURS."

Sam stared horrified at Adam as he forced Sam to a supine position on the ground. Laying down one of the guns, he ripped the boots from Sam's feet and threw them as far as he could.

Sam's socks were gray, with white heels and toes, and extremely sweaty from the morning-long nervous tension of the man who wore them. Adam picked up the other gun and, with a look of near hatred on his face, began to tickle each of Sam's stockinged feet with the gun barrels, jut as Sam had done to him. This went on for several minutes while Sam watched silently, fear and excitement mingling in his heart.

Then Adam threw down the guns and started to kiss, lick and sniff Sam's feet as if he were trying to devour them. Sam, like Adam, let out a moan of pleasure, feeling the boy's handsome face and lips against his stocking soles.

Adam put Sam's stockinged toes in his mouth, and sucked. Sam, now nearly deranged with fear and desire, thought Adam was trying to suck his toenails out.

Then Adam dropped Sam's feet, grabbed Sam's face in both hands, and kissed him passionately, full on the lips. The two men tumbled through the grass in each other's arms, kissing each other as hard as they could, fumbling for each other's trouser buttons. Within a minute each had the other's manhood in his hand, and within two they had both come, their spunk billowing onto the grass.

They lay in each other's arms for several minutes, their pants still unbuttoned, each one's stocking feet rubbing against the other's. They stared into each other's eyes, crying, confused, relied, and unshakably in love.

After a while Sam sat up and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Finally calm--for he know now what he had to do--he looked at Adam, smiling. "We got to finish our business here," he said.

He buttoned his pants, then stood up and went to get his boots, which Adam had flung about thirty feet apart. Adam watched him, sitting cross-legged like a small child, one stockinged foot crossed over the other.

Sam picket up his gun and reholstered it. "Can you stay here tonight?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Sam looked down at Adam tenderly. "We got to make this look right," he said. "The old man wants proof you're dead. I think he'll take it as proof if I give him your horse, gun and boots."

Adam stared back gravely. "He's goin' to want more proof than that," he said. "He's goin' to want my corpse, or a piece of it."

Sam shook his head. "A man don't give up his horse and boots--and certainly not his gun--unless he's dead," he said. "The old man knows that better than anyone." He picked up Adam's gun and boots and carried them over to Adam's saddlebags.

"Anything you want out of these?" he asked.

"My Bible," Adam said. "Also two pair of socks I got in there, and I'd appreciate my bedroll. I ain't got no money."

Sam took the Bible and socks out of the bags, then stuffed in the boots and gun. He took the bedroll from Adam's horse and brought everything over to Adam, who laid them on the ground. Sam then walked over to his own saddlebags and pulled out a box of hardtack, some strips of beef jerky, and a box of shotgun bullets. He pulled the rifle out of his saddle holster, and brought everything again over to Adam.

"The old man won't know I'm missin' my rifle," he said. "You may need it. I don't think anyone will come after you, but you never know."

Adam stood up. He took the rifle and other things over to the base of the tree. Then he embraced Sam and gave him an ardent kiss, his stockinged toes rubbing against Sam's booted foot.

"The old man promised me five thousand dollars to kill you," Sam said. "He didn't tell nobly else, so I figure you're probably safe tonight. I've known the old man twenty years now, and though I know he's an evil bastard, I also know he'll give me the full five thousand, and he won't tell no one about the bounty till I come back.

"The jerky and hardtack ain't much, but they'll last you till tomorrow sundown, which is when I'll be back." He stopped to wipe his brow; the noon sun was warmer than he anticipated. "You also have water from the stream, of course. The grove is just big enough for you to hide in if anyone comes by, and you also got the rifle. God forbid you have to use it. Don't light a fire tonight; put your blanket around you if it gets cold, and put on the extry socks too." He looked down at Adam's feet. "You goin' to be all right here? Alone all night in your stockin' feet?"

"Beats dyin' with my boots on!" Adam smiled, a full, radiant smile showing his even white teeth. Seeing the boy smile, Sam felt weak with love. He could barely open his mouth to finish what he had to say.

"Even after I pay my debts at the saloon, we'll have enough left over for a little spread of our own, far away from here. When I get back, I can walk the horse with you on it to the next town over, where we can buy you a new horse and boots--and a steak, 'cause you're goin' to be starvin'."

"Just so long as the steak ain't as tough as the boots!" Adam laughed, the first time that morning, and Sam thrilled to hear that familiar, welcome sound.

"I'll be back tomorrow, and then, God is my witness, we ain't never goin' to be parted again." They kissed once more. Sam gently lowered Adam to the ground, and once more kissed the boy's sock feet, now sweaty and wet from exertion. He kissed each toe slowly and tenderly, stroking the arches as he did so. Then he gently tickled each sole, and rejoiced in the boy's laughter.

"On second thought, I don't think I'll buy you boots after all," Sam said. "I'll buy you a hundred pair of socks, and keep you sockfooted forever."

"That'd suit me fine!" Adam said.

Sam rode off with Adam's horse in tow. it hurt him more than anything had hurt him in his life to leave the boy alone on the hillside, but he had to do it for Adam's sake.

Sam turned around one more time, and Adam was there, laughing and waving. "God is good to me," Adam though as he waved. "He brought me Sam, and He'll watch over us both." The noon sun was delightfully warm on his face, and the long grass tickled his stockinged feet. Yes, he though, everything will be fine.

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laythornmuse · 5 years

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Captor, Chapter 8, Part 2

Claire felt her face flush several degrees of red as he pulled her closer until her breasts were pushed against his chest and her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders.

“But it was your brazen courage that made me fall for ye, Claire. Surrounded by six men twice the size of you, you would not surrender your charge until you saw her pass safely. Your eyes glowed like coal embers, and I swore to myself then to be worthy of you, so you’d turn that gaze on me.”

Claire’s mouth fell open in her surprise as she considered Jamie’s words. She paused to collect herself before she spoke.

“Mary was so young and so frightened,” she whispered. “I didn’t know her for very long, but I made a promise to stay with her, and I would not abandon it.” She swept her eyes up to him. “In that moment, I saw nothing but my death, and my promise. I’m not sure that counts as bravery.”

“I disagree, Sorcha,” Jamie asked. His hand swept over her cheek as he dipped his head to hers. “It takes fortitude and guile to stand by your word instead of fleeing. As it is, I’ve scared ye senseless since we’ve met and yet here you stand.”

“Just that first night,” Claire answered, with a grin. She let her eyes drop to their interlaced fingers. She felt like a contradiction in this man’s arms: a part of her felt hurried and impatient while also feeling like she could sustain herself forever by merely touching him. Her fingers tugged at his coat, pulling him closer so she could tuck her head beneath his chin. “I’ve grown rather fond of you, Jamie.”

“Och,” Jamie muttered into her curls. “Ye grow fond of hounds, lass. I hope to be more to ye.”

“More?” Claire whispered into his neck, letting her breath tease a path to her ear.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured against her mouth. “Come now. It’s nearly time.”

Jamie led her back to their boulder and tucked her between limbs and plaid. Together they watched the last of dusk fall into the deep darkness of night before the sky glowed with brilliant shades of green and silver, purple and gold.

“Oh Jamie,” Claire whispered. “It’s beautiful…”

The Northern Lights, a phenomenon her uncle had spoken of in passing, was beautiful to witness in the northern Scottish sky. Jamie’s arms held her close to his chest as her head fell back against his shoulder.

“Aye, tis. You can see it most clearly in the early winter months. I was hoping we’d have a clear night for ye…” His words trailed off as her eyes met his. She entwined her fingers with the hands around her and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his lips. Jamie kissed her in answer and felt his blood quickened from her heat. Pressed close, their kiss deepened and Jamie’s hands took up their earlier work of loosening her stays. He felt her hands tangle in his curls as his tongue grew needy and slipped to her neck. Soft mews reached his ears and he groaned his approval as she straddled his lap and move her hips against his.

”You’re testing my restraint, Claire.”

“Then be rid of it,” Claire answered. “I want you, Jamie.”

She rucked up his kilt and slid closer, but felt his hand intervene.

”Nay, we can’t. Not here,” he murmured against her lips. She began to protest but he silenced her with a kiss. “I won’t be taking your virginity on the cold ground. Let’s head home, aye?”

Claire felt her heart swell as he pressed his forehead to hers. She nodded quickly and pressed her lips to his shoulder, feeling overwhelmed by his tenderness. Yes, he was the closest thing to home she’d felt in years.

They dismounted a short distance from camp, expecting to find most bedded down for the evening. Instead, a small crowd had gathered around the chief’s tent, with raised words being thrown between the parties involved. Jamie saw Alex in the fray and immediately started for the crowd, with Claire a step behind him.

“You’ve traded her to me enough times that I thought you’d be agreeable, Alex,” said a large brown haired Scot. Claire recalled his name was Will. “She’s happier with me, and you can go about finding another-”

“I’ll no have it!” Alex roared. “She is mine to do with as I wish, and if I use her to pay my debts then it is my choice to do so.”

“That was your right until I got her with child,” Will said evenly. “She’s been given a choice to come to me, and she’s agreed.”

Jamie stepped into the circle and transformed in the firepit’s light, his gentle features turning to steel as he took in the men’s words.

“Alex you knew the risk you took in sharing her,” Jamie said evenly. “Will is within his right, and no one else has touched her.”

“And what if it’s mine then?” Alex sneered, turning his venom toward his cousin. “The child could be mine after all.”

“He hasn’t lain with me in months—” Helen said, but quickly shrunk behind Will as Alex moved to strike her. James stepped forward, neatly intercepting Alex and turning him towards his tent before motioning to Will.

Claire startled when Helen appeared at her side, slipping her hand into her own. She’d been staring at the spot the men stood while arguing, and Alex’s tone had frozen her in place. His words reminded her of men she’d overheard in her past, those who would drop women off by the Nuns prayer house as if they were debris. She’d hold their hands while the nuns worked to comfort them, heal their ailing bodies if possible, or offer prayers if it wasn’t.

Helen’s hand felt like Mary’s and at that moment Claire realized that Alex’s hatred was not reserved for the English.

***

Jamie didn’t return to their tent for several hours, and though Claire told herself to sleep, her mind spun with questions for him. When he finally slumped through their tent flap, his expression was dark and irritable.

Claire didn’t say a word as she watched him from the bed, her eyes following him as he undressed with less care than he usually took. Finally, he approached the bed, his eyes widening upon seeing her awake.

“You should be asleep,” he whispered, sliding in beside her. “Come now, let’s…”

“Why did he share her, Jamie?”

The words burst from her mouth against her will. She knew he was exhausted but the last few hours had proved a living nightmare for her. She needed answers.

Jamie let out a breath, and she could tell he was searching for words and was coming up short.

“I canna explain why,” Jamie whispered. “Maybe they weren’t well suited, or…”

“But he…he whored her out to pay debts? What kind of debts?”

Jamie was still beside her as he listened. He bit his lip and shook his head. “Nothing of consequence. The men gamble from time to time, playing cards. But some don’t know when to back from a game.”

Claire felt tears prick at her eyes as she wiped furiously at them, a rage building within her that left her hands shaking.

“Would you—”

“No. Claire, look at me.”

Claire choked on a sob, but slowly brought her eyes up to his. His hand cupped her chin and his gaze visibly softened.

“Alex is young and carries demons of his own, but it’s a frowned upon and rare practice for the reason you saw tonight.” Jamie bowed his head to meet her eyes. “You dinna need to fear that of me. Not ever, do you understand?”

Claire nodded as she let Jamie pull her close. He murmured softly to her in Gaelic as he ran his fingers through her hair and looped his free arm around her waist. Claire buried her face into his shoulder and neck, and let herself cry out her frustration, anger, and sadness for Helen, and for the other women’s bedsides, she’d sat beside. Jamie didn’t question her tears just as he didn’t question her anger. He accepted them and held her through it until she quieted and calmed. Only then did his fingers begin to poke at her side.

“I thought I explicitly told ye to sleep naked…” he said with an exaggerated sigh. Claire felt his smirk against her brow and couldn’t help the one that pulled at her lips.

“The bed was too cold without you. I had to wear clothes,” Claire answered, her eyes blinking coquettishly at him.

“Mmhmm. Weel, I suppose I can’t argue with you dressing for bed when You’re alone. Dinna forget my preference though.” His hands tugged at her sleeves and a moment later he had her shift off her and thrown on the floor.

His lips pressed to her softly, weighing that perhaps she’d changed her mind given the events of the evening, or was now too tired to let him love her body…

“Will you have me, Claire?” He asked.

Claire pulled him down on top of her and bit his bottom lip. “Only if you stop making me wait.”

#LTM Captor

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fmdhyunmi-blog · 6 years

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setting: second week of december; mother’s birthday dinner. trigger warning: sacrilege and mentions of rape. word count: 1535.

hyunmi is taught to look for the beauty in everything: in a field of sunflowers -- gaze eternally on the sun, in a sailboat during a thunder storm -- streaks of lightning blitzing through the darkness. everything, everywhere.

but not in pain, no.

yet...

despite the lack of beauty ( the lack of good reason ), hyunmi presses on down the street. the pitter-patter of her shoes on the sidewalk asking questions:

are you sure about this?

her answers come in small puffs of breath, promenading as smoke:

no, i’m not.

clear skies of midnight blue, a wisp of translucent white where stars are mass in assortment: astonishing, bright, loud.

a warning, perhaps?

yes is wafted away, carried on a breeze to sea.

but she continues, legs tenacious but heart troubled. her body movies deliberately, brimming with resolution, practically hell-bent. she’s crazy. her soul hauls on the reigns, steering her back, but hyunmi is always stubborn; she’s driven.

stop. escape, escape.

too late.

hyunmi sees past her reflection in the window, eyes searching. the x on the map is ambiguous, hard to find in a valley of sugarcoated masks. she seeks no lucrative treasure but the wired traps before -- the pain.

her mother is older than she remembers. all crows feet and laugh lines. still beautiful, always beautiful. but hyunmi knows outward appearances, as wondrous as they are, are deceitful. she’s a spitting image of her mother ( and it scares her ). her mother smiles with ease and grace -- scot-free. it stings to see, the reality crumbling onto her.

of course she can smile through anything, despite anything. all her tears were spent on undeserving men decades ago, shedding none for her own daughter.

well, her first daughter.

beside her is a toddler, chubby face, squirming in the confines of a booster seat. the resemblance is uncanny, hyunmi has to do a double-take.

her replacement.

no, not a replacement, hyunmi corrected.

this child is different; this child isn’t her.

her mother will love her, protect her, believe her. she will dress her in pink tutus and fill her with golden dreams. one day, you’ll be prima ballerina, and eomma will watch all your shows! but this time, she’ll mean it.

love won’t be absent; it will flourish, endlessly, unconditionally. there’ll be too much love, and it will magnificent, a thing of envy.

her father isn’t absent, either; he is a notable pastor, a family man with three older sons from a previous marriage ( his wife passed away ). he will treat her as a princess, and her brothers are the knights, sworn to protect her. they won’t harm her.

please don’t hurt her, she’s not a toy. she’s precious. once upon a time, hyunmi wished to hear those words when they pried open the cellar she was locked in, when they saw the bruises and welts on her skin, but no. her wish in the well amounted to nothing but childish dreams of a saviour. don’t you dare hurt her.

and don’t you dare touch her like you did me.

she counted: one, two, three, four, five.

backs faced towards her, her step-brothers faces are hindered. she’s glad she can’t see them, unable to tell who from whom. they’re identical. always have been.

monsters.

detestable.

yet they they were, eating dinner, celebrating her mother’s birthday. and here she is, outside, uninvited. but she won’t go if she was. why would she? but she wants to. not with the pastor and his sons, but with her mother and sister. hello, we never met before, but i’m your unnie, and i’m going to protect you. all her words are meaningless; never said, never spoken.

there’s a chorus of laughter, the world at their feet -- at their disposal. hearty illusions of finally meeting her sister and rekindling with her mother are dissolved, shattered. the shards of glass are splayed at her feet, and the actuality of her circumstance stares back at her, insulting, offensive.

fuck them, hyunmi hisses.

what’s funny, their sham of a family?

they are full of secrets, privy whispered conversations and threats of don’t tell anyone. nobody should know. we have a reputation to uphold.

image surpasses substance in their eyes. be good on the outside, be fucked up on the inside. but go ahead, continue to fool the world, to fool yourselves. you think you’re halfway to heaven, but you’re on a one-way plane ticket to hell. may you burn. amen.

why is she here again? where is her vindication?

she hates them. the sight of them: merry, winsome, happy. they ruined her life. how can they act so innocent?

fuck them, she seethes when her mother goes out of her way to kiss each cheek, silent thank yous mixed in between. hyunmi’s own rang with longing, only caressed by cold tears.

there’s nothing to miss.

lips are venomous. her mother’s kisses are stained with lies and false hopes. i love you, hyunmi-ah. it’s just you and eomma, forever. and hypocrisy. how dare you accuse your brother of such a thing! where did you learn to lie like that? don’t you dare bring shame to my family.

yes, her family. hyunmi doesn’t belong.

yet why... hyunmi clutches her chest, an ache causing havoc. her heart is a wild, ferocious animal caged in her ribs, which threaten to collapse. why does she hurt?

her mother loved her once, right? i love you more than anyone. you’re my most precious person. i’ll always be here for you.

where did it all go wrong? you make me sick. what’s wrong with you? are you trying to hurt your eomma with your filthy lies? but... hyunmi was shoved away. cold, alone, no comfort, no protection. you won’t ruin this for me. now, get away. you’re no good for the baby. no love.

unintentionally, hyunmi commits a mistake of idling too long, frozen by the upheaval of sadness torturing her soul with fiery pitchforks and a binding vein of thorns. her mother’s face stretches in bewilderment. after years, their eyes find one another.

is that joy in her hers?

wait, no.

face ghastly, drained of colour and devoid of life, there is no joy in her mother’s gaze... only horror.

hyunmi inches away, her reflection no longer along -- another behind hers, breathing down her neck: hot, petrifying, detestable.

she counted five. now there are six.

“little sister.”

sinister -- tone so wicked, hyunmi is on the verge of crying... harder, stemmed by great fear.

stop crying for fuck’s sake! how can i can en--

no, no, no! shut up! shut the fuck up!

“what brings you here?”

he takes a step closer, and she takes a step away.

“oh, do i scare you?” the laughter is nightmarish, the person it belongs to even more so ( but hyunmi wishes this is only a dream, a hallucination she can escape from ). no, this is reality.

why are you so scared? i won’t hurt you if you--

“get away...” weak. “f-from me.” so fucking weak.

no, stop! please, stop! just please... stop.

flashbacks hinder her; they’re choppy but real -- too real. her skin burns, chest clogged, and a ghostly hand of yesterday covers her mouth. don’t scream, it said, the past. no one can save you, anyway.

“join us for dinner. i missed you.”

there is no knife in her hand, but hyunmi grasps, fingers cooling around a sharp blade of memory until her skin punctures, bleeding, oozing scarlet.

tell anyone, and you’re dead. or better yet, tell anyone, and your mother-- stab. hyunmi! what are you doing to your brother!

he takes another two steps, and she’s trapped against a wall. this is much too familiar; it’s uncomfortable, it’s downright terrifying.

her mother saw but where is she? no, her mother always saw but did nothing -- chose to be blind, chose her new family over her daughter.

eomma loves you. no.

it’s just you and eomma. no.

eomma will protect you. NO.

hyunmi knows, she’s matured, no longer the foolish little girl who believed in love. she’s alone in this world -- just her, and no one else.

“no one can save you.” yes, no one.

“what did you say?” his eyebrows furrow, confused.

for the first time, and for the last time, hyunmi locks eyes with the predator. hers are pitch black, empty.

no, not empty.

ample, thriving with anger and hatred.

him. it was all because of him. disgusting, a disgrace. yet... she is the one who feels dirty. all his fault.

hatred accumulated, spread like the plague, attacking everything, missing none. he’s a monster, and she’s no longer afraid. vengeance. she wants it, she survived for it.

“no one can save you.”

she’s no prey, not anymore.

her fist launches, knuckles cracking against his jaw. there’s an instance of red, and he’s on the ground. there’s no turning back as hyunmi flees, vision blurred with tears: misery, victory, but did she really win anything?

no one can save you, but you can save yourself.

and she disappears down a dark alley, destination unknown and unclear.

where is she going? away, away. escape, escape.

will she return? who knows.

#‪passion is energy ↷ development ;‬

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