stl: serj tankian, 'saving us'
If Hell were a place of smoldering ash and unyielding screams, she had fallen straight through to the other side where the deafening silence roared in her ears.
In the beginning, of course, it had been every bit the Hell and damnation that the Sunday preacher warned her of. In the beginning, her choked screams and agony had been depicted perfectly in Dante's "Inferno." But, after all this time, she had managed to contain the ache where her heart had once been, kept the pain under lock and key. The image of his face no longer caused her to pause, recoiling until the tears were under control; now, now she wielded an iron fist when the mirage crept in her peripheral. All that was left was to contain the anger that she was drowning in, the quickly rising tide of hatred toward his betrayal.
His love had been no more than a game.
Bitterness left a sickly sweet taste in her mouth as she lit a match and held it just below the decaying words of adoration, promises of marriage that had been written in his eloquent script. The flame licked the paper once, twice, three times before devouring it in its blistering mouth. She let go and watched intently as it floated into the pit before tossing photographs, black and white stills of happier days, on top of the blaze. It seemed fitting that they would die like this, wrapped in one another's arms, even if only on paper.
The wind scattered the ashes, carrying them away from her.
For the first time in far too long she felt able to breathe again.