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The slamming of the heavy metal door would’ve sounded like the execution shot of a firing squad, if it was audible over the sound of Scylla’s screams.
Her throat would’ve hurt if she wasn’t so focused on the pain of the only good thing she had being torn away from her.
She would’ve smelled the petrichor of the mycelium angrily lashing inside of Raelle if her nose wasn’t swollen shut from a combination of brutal assault and crying until she forgot who she was.
She would’ve been in bed with the one person in the world who had loved her, if her penchant for self destruction hadn’t reared up and created the biggest catastrophe she’d ever seen.
The slamming of the cell door sounded like an execution shot.
Scylla wished it was.
