Can something that burns so rapidly calm the whispering chaos of your cries? Or is this all just an illusion. The perfect hypnosis. Like the humming of a sweet melody to your frantic brain. Drip. Blood trickled over the curve of Millie’s collarbone. Drip. Slithering over her shoulder. Drip. Sliding off and into the mass puddle of death surrounding her. The last petal has fallen, a queen is born, and the disarray of her world is about to shatter under her very throne.
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