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Let All the Hurt Inside of You Die

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The desert stretched to the horizon and beyond. Dark clouds with no promise of rain loomed above, blotting out the sun and moon for days. Or had it been months? Did it matter to keep track anymore when the entire world died and decayed?

She meandered the landscape in search of a spell that didn't exist. Sheer, black linens shrouded her rigid form, billowing in the subtle breeze that offered no comfort. Not that she required it; a frigid chill pulsated from her, submerging her surroundings in a coldness that put the desert's nights to shame. It lived in her porcelain skin and icy eyes.

It lived in her heart and soul, secretly yearning to be set aflame.

She paused in her ventures. Every muscle ached and pleaded for relief, yet her stillness wasn't out of comfort. She wove intricate spells through the air, mere threads in her web of magic, and summoned forth the messengers sent out forty days ago.

Mirror images of herself inched closer like shadows stalking the light. Her eyes flicked amongst them. What had they found, if anything? Was there still a chance in this benumbed world?

All it took was a single drop, an ancient ingredient spoken in myths and fairy tales. With it, she could command more than life—she could bring it back.

Anything to resurrect the only one she ever dared to love.

Each illusion merged into her body. Holding her breath, she awaited their whispers—whatever truth they had found in their journeys. She expected of a font of knowledge, overflowing like a waterfall. Nothing but silence rattled her brain.

She clenched her hands into fists, black nails daring to pierce her skin. She longed to scream and cry, but had forgotten what it meant to do so long ago.