Prompts.

I've been writing a lot of SoF lately, so I wanted to do something different. I think it's important to switch it up now and then with writing. I searched for some prompts, and came up with "Flourish of hate". It seems different enough, so I ran with it; featuring Cindy from Crossfire!

Do any of you guys have any prompt ideas? I'd love to try them out!

There were two things that I had never felt before.

Two very important things, both interlinked by their intensity, woven into each other like needle and thread. These two things were as important as life to many and were nothing to a very few, and even those few were lying. I knew they were lying now, as I stood and stared, and I knew that as soon as one of them clicked into place, the other would be out of my grasp for forever.

You could not hold all the cards and still sit at the table.

I had never been skilled at bluffing, and I refused to let this be any exception. I had not been told by a kind parent or a loving mentor that either of these things were dangerous, that either of them were binding. That if you put your hands into the shallows it would envelope you, suck in you in and never let you go as if it were tar. It would stain your skin and rip whatever was left of you out through your pores until you were convinced that you could never feel more alive, never feel more invigorated then you did at that moment. It would throb and ache and shoot ice through your veins that was melted by fire shortly afterwards, singing everything else that you thought you held. Your fingers would be raw and bleeding after you touched it, and once you invited it in, once it slunk lovers hands over you, you could never go back.

It would take a part of you you could never replace, and it would own that piece until you died. Until your last breath scattered through your body, it would have you.

I would like to say that I fought, that I struck out against it before it could claim me. I wish that I could write this to you and tell you of my struggle, of how it clawed at my throat and I pried it away from my skin before the claws sank too deep.

But I can not.

It slunk up to me and I threw open my arms and invited it in. I wrapped it around me like a second skin, as if it clothed me and I were naked without it. I let it choke every breath out of me that I had, let it rip my veins and replace it with its own pounding venom until it escalated in my ears and thrummed its touch across every part of me.

Never had I felt more alive, and as I stared across the room at the woman on the opposite side of the table, it was through new eyes. Everything had been repainted in aggressive shades of crimson, and I let it curl my lips into a snarl, I let it lower my brows over my eyes and coil my body into tension that could only be released by a series of three words- three words that were representations of one of the two things I had never felt. Three words that were equally important to another set.

“I hate you,” I whispered, and watched as the ripples from my body plunging into the thick feeling boiled to a stand still and the identification was complete.

And with a flourish of hate, I leaned back in my chair against my bound hands clasped behind me and smiled.