035
It seemed like the whole blizzard had ended
before anybody spoke again.
Scorch was all out of Fear
to spit out of her concrete lips
like blood,
so she decided on the next best thing:
words.
“They’re telling me…”
Her raspy voice,
stained from all the big, expensive
cigarettes you see big, expensive people
with, shot out at me
before I even had the chance
to put up shields.
“They’re telling me that I should
paint you’re arms.”
“What?”
My own voice croaked.
Scorch smiled sadistically,
accepting it as an invitation.
“We can match.”
Her crooked fingers touched
the acid tattoos on her cheeks.
Oh.
“N-no. Thank you.”
I never stuttered.
Maybe it was the gleam in her eyes.
Not the one I saw earlier,
the one that reminded me of
neverending light in the darkest cave;
it was one that reminded me of the demons
she so often scared away.
“You’d have the prettiest bracelets,
honey.
Oh, they’d be beautiful.
We could match.
They want us to match.
Don’t you want us to match?”
Scorch dangled a stolen box
of matches in front of my eyes,
and the very next second
I was running through the door.
