Bramblepoint my sweet torment

Last for me! Feel free to powerplay injuries as she's fleeing

All at once the world broke into chaos. There were others — their yells, their teeth in her fur. She deserved it. She knew that. But Bronte — yes, Bronte, she recognized her now —

and she remembered John;

the way Dinah had looked at her;

there was blood, her blood, and Anathema finally tore away. If there was pain it did not reach her. Bronte would hate her now. Somehow she felt that, through the haze and the din of many voices, and it was a cutting sensation. And Ponyboy — no, not him, he could not know. Not him, too.

Anathema ran.