Blackfeather Woods [m] Gonna raise some sand in the dead o' night

What a pretty song he called her with.

Trust. The epitome of life.

It was then trust that put his teeth upon her throat. It was trust, she believed, she knew, that allowed her shaken mind to be toppled. It was trust that death now not only breathed into her lungs but engulfed them with. Black, disgusting soot as red clouded her vision and church bells rang for broken flesh. She found her lungs emptying, and the open air welcomed what she released. 

What a lovely embrace.

With her head lifted towards the sky, crimson thundered in the sky as he forced a flash out of her life. Nearly gurgling pain, heightened by the expectancy of wrong before he'd pierced her skin and held her there with the sky seizing in her vision. The only soothe she'd find would be his stomach, and her suffocating lungs slowly choosing to inhale again.

I am alive. Is this what it feels like? For my baren mind to drown, and to smell my own iron dripping by another, to show me I can have life?