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Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed. What a bastard, time is.
“I hope you burn so bright that you scorch your Golden King down to ash.”
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”
“Kindness shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be freely given.”
“If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.”
“I am finally, after all this time, starting to be me,” I cry, pressing a hand to my chest. “I’m finally starting to say what I think, and I’m not going to lie down again to make it easier for you to keep me beneath your thumb.”
I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.
