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Cicada Nights
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Rachael's breath violently caught in her throat like the sickle hook of a fisherman through soft flesh, the moment her gun was clicking empty, she ignored the throb in her one good arm already tired of playing executioner and she began to stare wildly about for precious, precious ammunition

what is wrong with me

Rachael's undead finger continued to spasm over the trigger pointlessly.

Katarina was running. Rachael watched her go. The thunderous crunching of her footfalls onto murder-scene detritus of crumbled autumns and winters bygone, it for a moment washed Rachael's mind clear of thoughts.

It all rushed back and Rachael fell to her knees
Hey. Hear the trickle of fresh static snow, how it softly settles into the creases of your brow and wipes your vision white like a little girl's blanket pulled over your forehead before a kiss from Dad crystallizes the warmth of a memory. That warmth will be the last thing to leave your body when it is naught but cold compost and dregs.
she crawled hand over foot, swimming as did her vision in the dirt that invitingly embraced her fingers into the funeral depths, she pawed at the things she'd scattered in her flight. Metal casings, soft green fabric of her sweater that she lurched over, vomited over as a thin trail of ocher bile splattered over her own fingers and nails and she weakly sobbed, soundlessly, she had no energy left to actually make even a pittance of noise.
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Victim, Victim, Honey You're My Fifth One · Coastal Woods (DANGER ZONE)
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