Work Text:
the campfire watches.
the centre of the camp, flames over rotten wood,
burning
smoking
crackling
watching
seeing
over and over and over as it sinks its smoky claws into the dirt and the ash and the minds and its sick visions burrow into the hearts of anyone around,
anyone desiring or wanting or leaving their mind and soul just a little too open .
the campfire sees yvonne and its flames burn green with envy
for that verve, that raison d’être
(that sick pit of
grief and hurt and sorrow and bitter
bitter sadness in her chest,
coiled like a tightly wound spring)
the visions are not its fault. it does not choose to fulfil its purpose, to show people what they so often do not want to see. it may be a temptation, tantalus’s unreachable fruit, yet it does not claim the knowledge gained to be of satisfaction. does it deserve the bitter glares, the vitriol when people taste its knowledge? c’est la vie.
yvonne sees it all.
her hands in marie ann’s,
their lips in her hair,
the devastating sentiment of what could have been, but no more.
not since her corruption.
and as her eyes grow dark with dulled grief, a rusted knife sliding between her ribs and as the smoke fills her lungs and fills her mind the campfire remains and
burns
and smokes
and crackles
and watches
and sees
until the final encore as the smoke clears anew.