Glint

Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.

If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

Kindness shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be freely given.

We’re all captives of something, even things we don’t want to admit to.

Life takes you on paths you don’t have a map for.

He shakes his head. “No, Auren. You’re the one that needs to burn. You need to spark to life and fight. Stop letting him dull you, stop letting the whole fucking world trample you,” he shouts, making me flinch from the vehement demand. “If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.

Plotting is what I'm best at. A good thing too, since I lack both of the traits that this world respects: power and a penis.

The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable.

If you insist on lying, at least be better at it.

How did I mistake an owner for a lover?

I kept taking it and taking it, convincing myself that this was the way it needed to be. Lying to myself because I loved him, because he manipulated me. I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.

We’re women in a man’s world. I’m sure you know how that is.” I dip my chin. “I do.” “Good,” she says with a terse nod, the shaven blades in her scalp stabbing down with the movement. “Then you know that we have two options.” She lifts a finger. “The first is, we can conform. Be what they want, act to please. It’s the safe option.” I fidget on my feet. Every part of me is listening, attention rapt, though uneasiness mingles alongside my intrigue. “And option two?” She holds up a second finger, but instead of doing it on the same hand, she raises her other. I don’t know why that feels significant, but it does. “Option two is harder. It’s harder for us,” she admits, looking me straight in the eye. “There will always be someone who will try to make us choose option one. But don’t. Don’t lie down to make it easier for the world to keep you under its thumb. Own your shit and choose yourself.

It’s time to start choosing me.

There’s safety in loneliness, but there’s a lurking danger too. One that doesn’t come from anything other than yourself.

Sometimes, things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.

You may not be behind bars anymore, but you're still in that cage. And I think part of you wants to stay in there because you're afraid. But I think another part of you, the part you repress, is ready to be free.

You’re so much more than what you let yourself be.

Commander, I must insist that you don’t touch King Midas’s favored.” “I must insist that you shut the fuck up,” Osrik drawls.

I’ve been in a cage of my own making.

Maybe I'm finally letting the words out because he breathed some of his unending confidence into me. Or maybe I feel bolder when I'm shadowed by night. I think some questions can't bear to face the light. It's easier for hesitant words and feared answers to be given in the dark. At least then, we can hide them in the shadows - hide ourselves from them.

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.

He kept me safe.” “Safe.” He growls it like he’s a wolf who’d like to devour it whole. “Always the same damn argument. Yes, how magnanimous of him to lock you behind bars all day and call you his favored whore.

There it is, Goldfinch,” he purrs, and that dark caress is back in his voice. “You’ve finally found your fight.

I can’t wait to see the rest of you. When you let it go, when you finally let that out, your fury is going to light up the spirit you’ve shadowed.” He looks like someone who’s won, boasting in superiority. “I hope you burn so bright that you scorch your Golden King down to ash.

He’s being kind now, his voice no longer hard or accusatory as his hand comes down to pat me. His fingers graze adoringly over my head, a heeled pet to be stroked. And right then, I wonder how the hell I fooled myself into thinking this was love.

I’ve found that some smells are strings tied around memories. When you catch certain scents, those strings pull taut.

Your anger is misplaced, but I like it,” he says with a feral grin, sharp canines gleaming. “Every time you let it leak out just a little bit more, I can see you better, Goldfinch.

Yet it’s the hurts without marks that worry me the most.

Are people so content in ignorance that they’ll believe every lie fed to them, despite what they see right in front of their eyes? Then again, perhaps it isn’t ignorance. Maybe it’s just... fear. They don’t want to even consider the alternative. It would make people uneasy, make it hard to sleep at night.