Nothing was rewritten, but compiling all of my snowballs into one thing makes sense.
Estoma, I hope you enjoy the snow down your back in the midst of an Australian summer : )
"If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get," Brutus hisses in her ear. One hand grasps her muddied hair and the other presses a knife into her neck. A thin stream of blood trickles over her collarbone. He lets her fall onto the dirt, lets her silently suffer for seventeen seconds.
She whimpers, softly, clenching her fists. She's skinned her knees, and the dirt that's grinding into the wounds isn't helping her situation. "I want a fight," she whispers, climbing to her feet.
"Darling, it's easier for you if you just lie back and let it happen," he says, smirking. She lunges for him, clawing at his neck. He presses her back, pushing against her chest with the shaft of his spear. She falls back onto the emerald green grass.
Wiping blood from her brow, she draws back, clutching her knees to her chest. Blood stains her torn and dirty shirt, staining what little white remains. "Please," she cries, tears streaking across her face.
"Oh, Amity, don't you get it? You're going to die."
She whimpers as he teases her, throwing the spear close to her abdomen then pulling it back. Amity scrambles back, fingers clutching the blades of grass. Staring into his eyes, she realizes she has no choice.
She has to fight back.
When she rises he shoves her back, but catches her before she falls to the ground. He draws her lips close to his and she obliges, pulling her arms around his neck. When their lips meet, his hands close around her neck.
Poor Amity died a moment later, straggling for one last breath. Those who dare to hope, and those who dare to trust? They die.
But it's always at the hands of Brutus.
