Six of Swords

// trauma, cults, abuse, escape

They say that within every doll is the seed of a witch.

Rain hammers the windshield. The world contracts down to a grey tunnel as the odometer ticks up mile by mile. You’ve been driving for hours now. It’s going to get dark soon. Your makeup is still running. You’re free.

They say that wrapped around every doll’s heart is a satin ribbon its witch can tug upon whenever she wishes to recall her errant tool.

You really got away. Did she let you go? The wiper blades beat in time with your heart. Or is that clockwork?

They say you can’t ever really be free. They say she’ll always find you in the end.

Streams and rivers pour off the highway overpass, roaring into the concrete cavern that shelters your car while you smoke. It tastes horrible and bitter. It reminds you of her. It feels good.

They say she made you what you are, and so you’ll always be a seed that hatches into her again. They say a lot of shit okay. But that’s all just stupid stories, right?

You hold your shark stuffie and sob, the rain masks the sound of your despair. You’re free. Great. Fuck.

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