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Cicada Nights
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It's over. I don't have to worry anymore.

Rachael's thrashing grew weak, lame, crippled. The pain in her shoulder and her lungs, her head,
her heart,
it wouldn't matter anymore but somehow it still hurt so badly, it was still all so overwhelming in the here and now and Rachael couldn't calm down, gross and oily fear dripped from the tattered ending of every nerve and her muscles were tensing, screaming for action that was never going to come.

I'm sorry
Rachael just had to accept it

but she was still struggling,
still fighting for each pathetic whimper of a breath
for whatever reason.

The story is already over. I have nothing left to say.

And Rachael remembered, vaguely, that the gun she had stuffed into her bag was the better talker.

I don't want to do that.
Hypocritical thoughts.
I don't want to be that girl.
Rachael was realizing something important, and of all the maelstrom of thoughts and emotions screaming for rights to her last breath it was the simple few syllables

I don't want to die.

Rachael whined, weakly. Snot and spit and the hissing of a deflating balloon escaped her lips. It was the arm with the shoulder that was in pieces that had the leverage to move and move it did, even as fragments of bone sunk deeper into the mincemeat of her ragdoll body and that body screamed aloud in pain that blubbered out of her mouth. Her head limping, neck in enough tatters to inadvertently protect Rachael from retaliation. Her body ratcheting, in a singular straight arc with a single unseen and unknown target at the end of that parabola.

A contrived convulsion of rebellion.

Rachael's knuckles one by one cracking as they sunk into Katarina's jaw.
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Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One · Coastal Woods (DANGER ZONE)
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