When Trace’s suicide extinguishes their firefly code—the secret language that once defied their mother’s abuse—Casey’s world fractures. Grace’s Merlot-stained neglect curdles into nihilism, and the attic’s fairy lights rot into silence. Desperate to resurrect the “light,” Casey fixates on Evin, a classmate whose friendship once mirrored Trace’s defiance. But love warps to possession; she stalks, claims, carves her grief into flesh with a kitchen knife. The peppers in the garden wither. Fireflies avoid their windows. And as whispers of her crimes spread, Casey’s mind splinters—haunted by Trace’s ghost, Grace’s mockery, and Evin’s hollowing eyes.
In this timeline, trauma’s flicker doesn’t spark hope—it ignites a pyre. What remains when the last ember of resistance smothers? Only the knife’s cold hymn:
"If love cannot save, let it consume."
*~*~*~*~*~*
Henderson reached for his radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got a 10-54, possible mental—”
Casey lunged.
The knife—always the knife—found his throat first, a wet shunk as cartilage split. He gagged, blood bubbling over his lips, and collapsed against the cruiser.
“Shouldn’t have looked,” she hissed, straddling his chest. “Shouldn’t have touched.”
Because I was pondering a "what if" scenario that I'm writing out.
What IF Trace had gone through with his plan with the knife in the attic that night? What if he wasn't there to hold Casey's hand or braid her hair while their mother continued with the abuse?
Well, you get this...
Likewise, if Casey hadn't be there for Trace. In the end... they needed each other. Together. Strong.
I am the storm that is approaching. Provoking. Black clouds in isolation. I am reclaimer of my name. Born in flames. I have been blessed. My family crest is a demon of death
Nah...I'd still win. I am the storm that is approaching. Provoking. Black clouds in isolation. I am
