Page 126 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1
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doing my best to wrest her head from her thorny shoulders.
            We splashed beneath the waves of near-liquescent darkness,
            the depth we achieved containing shadows sufficiently old
            enough to turn away the glare of the sun. Once the light had
            vanished, the quiet of buried secrets rose and stole the sounds
            of thunder and death from the air, plunging them beneath the
            unceasing knell of nothingness. We were alone in a void,
            and for a moment, it seemed we were no less than gods,
            floating within a primal void, battling each other for the right
            to  fill  creation  with  our  singular  and  inscrutable  designs.
            The fact  that  we survived the impact  of our fall  proved
            further that a Red Dream had been joined by our meeting—
            the Deadworld was denied  the full measure  of its power
            over our flesh and blood, allowing wonder to undo the work
            of wisdom. Burning debris rained down seconds after we
            crashed to the shrouded earth, yet the darkness fought back
            the fire’s light, begrudging it an impossibly small dispersion.
               Miss Patience  rose from  beneath  a  mounting  pile  of
            burning wood and fallen rock, throwing it aside with little
            effort. Her dead eyes, while incapable of affecting me with
            their hunger-inducing glare, bore into me with a hatred that
            almost  set  me  aflame.  Just  before  launching  into  another
            uncalculated rage, she paused—an expression formed, for
            the first time reflecting her human origins.
               Black  Molly’s teeth  scraped together  violently  as she
            spoke through a mouth no longer designed for speech, her
            tongue bleeding as she struggled through her words. “You’ve
            made a fine revenge of things, little killer. You’ve destroyed
            all that I’ve worked for, and now you’re trying to add me to
            your collection of artwork. I am carved from a darkness you
            can’t even remember, much less imagine. I’m a collage of
            grimmest truths, assembled by grinning poets that watch and
            laugh from behind this game of light and darkness. And like
            some angry child, you would break me apart and leave me
            in ruin? Destruction is the cheapest form of art, little killer. I
            wouldn’t hold my head too high, if I were you.”
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