Red sun, blazing horizon… those rays always looked like knife tracks. It fit, didn’t it? A deep gushing stabwound, bleeding out‍ ‍‍—‍ engulfed entirely‍ ‍‍—‍ into in calm waters. I’d have gone out like that, if it wouldn’t last so damn long.

Always they said that warmth above was some kind of love. Was it more like dying rage? The frantic tremors from muscles straining‍ ‍‍—‍ a desperate heart not realizing its efforts only made it so much worse?

As the sun rose, I crawled down into my hole. Maybe I didn’t want to be a witness.

Or maybe it was projection. Blood on my hands, enough of it that it was all those fingers felt anymore. Sticky‍-​slick and flaking. Metaphorically. I kept myself clean, always.

Red flame, flicker‍-​faint, that little mote of red encased in yellow seeking around like an eye. Was it odd that snuffing candles with pinched fingers was almost as satisfying as gouging‍ ‍‍—

I’m getting heavy‍-​handed here, aren’t I?

So now I slump back, nestling into the carved dirt of this hole in the ground, and I just peer into that flickering flame, that seeking gaze too anxious to make sustained contact with my eyes.

I contemplate hate and need.

I hated hiding in a hole in the ground all day‍ ‍‍—‍ could you guess that much? …No, I didn’t really hate it‍ ‍‍—‍ I only did it because it was the option I hate the least.

At night, the air grew cooler, and dark made easy hunting. Creep around in daylight, and I was the one being hunted.

No, what I hated was that it was the best option, that it had come to this. That every face I met now must be fearful, suspicious‍ ‍‍—‍ if they weren’t, they’d be so much sticky‍-​slick guilty dripping off my claws. Easier to dig through dirt than muscle‍ ‍‍—‍ but so much easier to wash off the earth.

But I didn’t really hate it, do I? I needed it. I only do it because it was the option I wanted, and chose.

The flame stopped flickering. Stared like an accusation. Like a knowing glance.

It was what we wanted.

“What you wanted,” I mutter.

The flame crackled like indignant embers.

She needed it, and I hate that I have to feed her flesh like firewood, blood like oil, to stoke this lonely fire of ours.

It was what I wanted. Hated the least. Need. All the same.

I hate that a little candle in a dark hole felt so much warmer than the sun bleeding out above me, and all the smiling faces watching.

Warmer. More intimate. Loving‍ ‍‍—‍ needing me.

The flame had stopped its anxious flicker, its staring stillness, and now it wavered like every curling wave was a hesitant smile.

I reached out, my fingers shivering from her anticipation, limned lucent silhouettes in her light.

And I pinched and snuffed her out.

It was what I hated least.