Fire Extinguisher {Louis Tomlinson One-Shot}

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn,

But that's all right because I like the way it hurts

Rihanna's soulful voice rang out from a lone boom box situated in the sand, alarming the mass of gannets perched atop a nearby cliff.  They squawked loudly, chagrined at the hunk of silver for interrupting their hunt for shellfish.

Just gonna stand there and hear me cry,

But that's alright, because I love the way you lie

Unfortunately for the sea fowl, the owner of the boom box couldn't care less.  She had her own troubles to deal with, and their quest for food wasn't one of them.

I love the way you lie

In one swift motion, Joy pulled the elastic band from her ponytail, letting loose her dark tresses.  A chilly breeze whooshed by, causing them to whip around her face, giving her a rush of adrenaline.  She stomped her bare foot into the wet sand, her slender back arched and her long arms spread out.

It was time for her body to take over.

As Eminem began hurling his emotions, so did Joy––him using his voice, her using her limbs.  His grating words––raw and intense––melded with the articulate swaying of her hips––each sway, a symbol of prominent pain––to create a searing elixir.

For the many reasons that Joy loved dancing, nothing surpassed the feeling of being alive.  With every kick and jump, tumble and flip, twist and turn, the more she became in touch with the world around her.

The more she became in touch with herself.

A fresh surge of razor-like dominance suddenly struck a chord in her, acute determination pervading her features.  Her eyes glittered, then flashed like Zeus' beloved lightning bolts, her untamed hair splashing around her head in a fiery halo.

This, is for not eating.

Joy did a pirouette, jumping off into an air-split, before landing gracefully in the sand, her split intact.

This, is for my scars.

She shot an exceedingly distasteful glance at her adulterated wrists before readjusting her body into a bridge and finishing off with a series of back flips.

This, is for being an over-sensitive idiot.

Joy started backing up to where the gray water met the shore, stopping only when she felt the frigid, foamy waves lapping at her swollen ankles.  Closing her eyes for a brief second, she stretched her arms and inhaled deeply, reveling in the salty air before her lashes fluttered open and she took off sprinting.  Her blistered feet leaped off the sand, as she rotated her body into a handstand, and another, and another, and another, and still another, before gently settling back onto her feet, thereby ending the cartwheel quintet.

This, is for being a weakling.

She ground her teeth, as her hands curled into fists, her nails ferociously digging into her calloused palms.  Narrowing her eyes, she dove into the sand, tucking in her head as she skilfully rolled onto her neck, executing a sequence of sleek somersaults.

Without so much as pausing to catch her breath, Joy hauled herself up to standing position, ready to engage in another complex routine. Just as she was rocking her body, discreetly moving her shoulders and chest into small graceful thrusts, her gaze fell upon a labyrinth of footprints, brandishing the sand.

Her eyes widened seeing that the pristine sand was tainted by her vestiges . . . just like her smooth wrists were tainted by scars.

You push, pull each other's hair, scratch, claw, hit 'em