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He slams the door.
It makes a loud bang like a bullet being shot in response to a woman refusing
to give up the small ring that adorns her finger.
These things are to be earned.
Doing so is not as simple as buying a car or something of great monetary value.
They have meaning, like the warm embrace of a child welcoming you home.
They will not be unlocked easily and in its attempts to jimmy the lock your anger only tightens it, pushing the door closer to never being opened again.
She was raised among dragons, spitting fire just to watch each other burn.
Caught in between, those fires forged that ring and every ounce of strength that it surrounds.
You pull the trigger and your words burst like shattering glass. The shards dig deep, but change nothing.
They’re meaningless and her tears fall like blood drops into empty pools.
She’s stronger and different that you ever expected when you stood like a vulture picking off who appeared to be the weakest of the pack.
Her back against the cold cement wall, she ducks and runs, leaving behind a small trail of blood.
But it has nothing to cling to, it fades. Only to reappear in your memory, serving as a reminder that she was once there, more than just a ghost.
And the more you scream for her to come back, growing into a dragon from her past, the further away she runs.
Belongings locked safely in her blood stained hands.