Boiling. She’s burning. Engulfing her surroundings like fire. Clawing at furniture with her close to skin nails. Fingertips red. Eyes red. Fury red. There’s negativity all around her. She’s ready to lose herself, and let the demon take over her senses. She’s ready to harm, and ready to kill. Beneath that mask of pure rage, hides that timid soul, which her mind is not ready to acknowledge, as it is now inflamed. Which was then just ¬†doused in kerosene is now reaching a supernova. Destruction of everything. Erasing that persistent, adamant virus. She pauses and tries to breathe in, only to find out that her lungs won’t take in air. They would take in violence. Pure and undiluted massacre. The virus has now resurfaced after five months. But still not weakened. Like her, it is two-faced. But she is ready to have blood on her hands, both guilty and just, only to get rid of it. Nothing affects her anymore. She refuses to contemplate the aftermaths. The grief, the misery, the loneliness or the isolation. Because her reason, and her lust for that blood is vicious, and hard to argue with. Just and fair. Death is beckoning her now. Beckoning her to feed him.

She can tear apart whatever comes in her way. The virus has already affected her, and the other two she loves the most. Thinking about them reflexively brings more of those God forsaken tears back. One reason for the homecoming of her temporary companions, whom her life couldn’t get enough of, she probably never will, shall be erased. Wiped off like the fluids covering her cheeks. But as she reaches to wipe them off, she realises, that they have already been removed. Evaporated. Like the virus would now be. No longer would it come hungover, and cause any more misery or pain. Because now it would evaporate. Dissolve into the air. Become dispersed. Become nothing. Become forgotten. Dead, and lifeless.


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