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You've lived all your life in this rotted, boarded-up town, this backwoods dust bowl, full of people uglier than the buildings (but not by much).
You're pretty, but you know that doesn't count for much.
Maybe in another place, pretty might do you some favors. Here, pretty just means you'll look cute if you're lucky enough to have an open casket.
Anyway, what you really like- what you really want- is fire.
Wynonna has fire.
That burning, burning away on the inside. That angry snarl, kicking feet, fuck-you one-two-punch, bloody teeth grin. Running wild, brambles in her hair. Beer on her breath at fifteen and you in your stocking feet, climbing in bed with her after she's only just climbed back in the bedroom window.
She had it, the fire.
You didn't.
Somebody had to be good.
You were always good at being good. Staying quiet, staying calm. Behaving- "yes ma'am, no ma'am, please uncle will you pass the mashed potatoes?"
Sitting with your feet crossed at the ankles in Champ's car, worrying the hem of your church dress. He didn't touch you once before you blew out the pink candles on your buttercream birthday cake at 18.
Then- Haught.
Swaggering into the bar.
You could see the flames licking out through her eye sockets. She was a burner too, like Wynonna.
You like 'em angry.
Her hair the color of a campfire. Your white fingers tangled in it like driftwood. She lays you down and licks heat into your mouth, your heart, your cunt. You feel like kindling. Ready to spark.
One match and it all goes up.
Haught puts her hand on your back and the dry grass inside of you rustles in the wind.
You ever seen a field fire?
The day you leave Purgatory for good, you find Haught, leaning against the barn on your aunt's property, lighting up a cigarette. She kisses you, ash on her tongue.
You take the Malboro from her mouth and flick it into a pile of dead branches.
The smoke rises up. The fire spreads. Haught's smile is like the sun.
"Slash and burn, baby," you say.
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fin