I love the way they think I love the way they quantify human worth based on superficial value I love the way so many of them want sweet young Christian girls I love their hate I love their desire for what they hate I love the violent obsession I love how they ooze insecurity

It would be beyond easy to be someone they idealize, someone they compare every other female to, someone who transcends their Madonna whore complex by only being their Madonna

Tell them sweet lies, brush up on my bible knowledge a bit, its not hard at all to change ones appearance to be... Traditional. And with a certain upbringing maybe I was already being prepped to care for a person like this, to respect and not question their every whim. So easy to be their perfect doll, to be the exception to their rule, to be the first and only one they've ever gotten to hold close <3

Then I leave, ruining not just their self esteem but their view on humanity and from there maybe their life, watching from a distance as they post on their little forums and accounts spraling and foaming with vitriol for me, the one who proved them right, the first last and only one they let in

The sheer mass of people makes his head spin. He’s vaguely aware of the fact they’re angry.

They’re furious.

He didn’t think the governor’s house was that important to the villagers. How was he supposed to know? It had made a gorgeous fire.

All rose flames and sparking explosions, blooming into a garden of red and blue. He regrets nothing.

Sunlight catches on the dirt, turning it to the colour of gold.

Finn licks cracked lips, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of flicked leather and shimmering heat.

Faces blur together, but he’s pretty sure the soot-streaked human is the governor. He does his best to smile. “I think I did your village a service and I should be paid for my efforts.”

The soot-streaked face contorts. “You’ll be paid alright.” A hand connects with Finn’s face, and he’s caught between splintered wood and the human’s open palm.

Ears ringing, he presses his forehead into the post and finds it brings more despair than it does comfort.

Everything seems to bleed away except the sweat-stained post.

Reality becomes nothing more than the chains holding him up and the twisting weight on his shoulders and the stinging in his eyes.

More real than all of this and far worse is the snapping of a whip. It cracks behind him, ripping the air apart.

As there’s not much left of his shirt–it's tattered and ashen– they don’t bother to rip it away. And they’ve already taken his jacket– they better give it back when this is over—

The first blow takes his breath away. An armoured punch wouldn’t have stolen it better. His forehead slams into the wood–

–the second blow cuts him across his shoulder– he sees red. Flames spiralling, burning into dark-sea ash–

He bites back a scream.

The third one crosses over the second and the scream surfaces. Blood trickles down his arms, but it's not from the whips, it's from the chains he’s twisting against.

He’s still standing and he’s not entirely sure how. His knees are water. Somehow, he manages to draw in a bruised breath that leaves his head pounding. “Is this the best you can do?”

Leather-pain curls around his ankle and he’s yanked to the bloodied dust. But the chains don’t relent. Something snaps in one shoulder and his arm goes limp.

“Not by a long shot.” The whip is handed to another guard. “My arm is tired. Have a go.”

Finn is screaming again.

Is it the fifth blow? The tenth? He’s lost count.

The black dots in his vision are throbbing. Pulsing to a heartbeat that’s not his own. Or it could be– he’s not entirely sure his heart can beat that fast.

His screaming fades to hoarse whimpers, buried in the wooden post and tasting of iron. The black dots morph into spores, spiking behind his eyes. And when a blow slashes down on his dislocated shoulder, his eyes roll back until the whites show completely.

Limp against the post, unconsciousness is a mercy.

But the beating continues.