This is something I've been working on over at No Girls Allowed. A snippet from the middle of a work in progress about Muses, it stands on it's own two legs, but you're welcome to drop by to read from the beginning. Simply click here to get just those posts (and don't forget, it's a blog, so start at the bottom).
~Pia
Enveloped in flames, I burn. Choked by smoke, I gag and cough. Tendrils of burnt-flesh smell snake into my nostrils and coil around my lungs, hissing, squeezing.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Max whispers in my ear.
I can’t see him. My eyes are gone, melted, mushy puddles with scraggly optic nerves in the hallow sockets of my skull.
“I know it does,” he continues.
I can’t speak. My lips have cracked and peeled away, revealing not quite straight teeth, slightly yellowed by coffee and severely darkened by heat and flame.
“Is it still fair?” he asks. “Is it still right?”
My muscles are crisp and brittle. I fear moving. I wish only for unconsciousness, for death, for anything to relieve the pain of incessant burning, burning, burning.
Then darkness. Cool and crisp darkness like an autumn night.
I hear him snort in disgust behind me, but I am frozen in place, unable to turn, to blink, to breath.
“Yeah, I come across as an a$$,” he says. “I deal with it. It's not my problem if someone doesn't like me.”
“No,” I think because I cannot speak, “It’s mine.”
“Exactly,” he says.
The rain comes. It is cold, heavy, and blinding.
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