Candles.

Never underestimate the flame, a teardrop of fire, for it has seen many things. Heard many things. Every yellow-and-blue teardrop has a secret, hushed in its muted light. It dances madly about with its silent cries, melting little droplets of wax.
She's too drugged to misunderstand. Her fingers shake, long and white, like the candlesticks she tries to light. She gets one lit and suddenly her dazed, sluggish movements are too slow for him. He beckons her over.
He slips off the straps of her dress, one at a time. When the straps are securely off her shoulders, he fists the soft material and yanks it off, quicker this time.
"I love you," she whispers. She leans her body against his shoulder. He says nothing himself, but he pushes her back, away from him and onto the bed. He then pulls off his own pants and positions himself.
She squirms and writhes. She would scream, but his knife is there, inches from her face, clenched between his teeth. His eyes, pale blue, aren't as soft as they once were. They glare down at her in concentration, irises of liquid ice.
When he's finished with her, this lousy sack of skin and bones, he gets up and gets dressed. He sheaths the blade of his knife and puts it in the pocket of his Abercrombie jeans. His letter jacket safely on, he leaves her alone in the bed, bleeding and asleep.
"That's why you wouldn't fuck me," he smirks on his way out the door. "You're no good in bed."
The flame on the candle jumps erratically, screaming warnings into the room, empty except for a snoring figure in the bed and a promise ring dropped carelessly on the floor.

I told you, fire doesn't lie.







A/N: I really like this one, like I like all of my other really screwed up pieces. This is the first time I ever successfully wrote about rape though, and in such a form. Enjoy!