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party wurmple never sleeps. only dances.
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Bryony loved the rain. She loved light drizzles, where you could go out for walks and not bump into anyone and hear the rain pattering against her umbrella and be left alone to her thoughts. She loved heavy showers, where she could sit at her desk with a hot mug of coffee or cocoa and a work in progress sketch in front of her, and watch the raindrops slide down the window. She loved thunderstorms, where she could huddle under a blanket at night in her room, the only light coming from whatever video game she was playing and the brief flashes of lightning shining through the window.

She wanted to think that if she closed her eyes, she would be able to magically transport herself to a safer place in her head, a place where it was cold and it was raining but she was dry and out of harm’s reach and she could just stay seated with her eyes shut, and nothing bad would happen to her.

But that was impossible. There was just too much that tied her back to the island. The freezing chill, making the metal wrapped around her neck feel almost unbearable, the scraping of branches along the ground, the constant sound of paper flung every which way by the wind, the eternal stab of hunger.

And her friends, in the same boat, a few feet away from her.

Bryony looked down at the floor between her feet. Her arms fell to her sides, hands gripping tightly to the edges of the stool. She stayed that way for several seconds, Alice’s words hanging in the air, before she turned to look at her friend, a forced smile on her face and tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise for anything. I don’t know if I’d have made it this far if it wasn’t for you.”

The words never made it out of Bryony’s mouth. Gunfire, a sound all too familiar to her now, ripped through the doorway of the art room, and Bryony screamed, toppling backwards from the stool as she tried to spin round. Her head slammed against the floor with a sickening thud, and her vision blurred. She desperately tried to clamber to her feet, but she felt like she would throw her guts up if she did. So she crawled. She crawled behind the easel, as if that would protect her, ears ringing and head pounding, the wind and rain picking up by the minute. She couldn’t tell if the shooting had stopped yet, all her senses overwhelming her, so she stayed frozen, hoping that the shooter would leave.

Praying that Alice and Candice hadn’t been hit.


"bryony and alba would definitely join the terrorists quote me on this put this quote in signatures put it in history books" - Cicada Days, 2017
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Rain, Rain, Come Again · Art Therapy