small, pretty, teeth in the dark

″Shut up.” A voice says sharp, a woman. And Flora should. She doesn’t know where she is, it’s dark, and she can’t see anything. There’s panic lodged in her chest, pain aching where they bruised her when they dragged here, into this place and her chances of living are better if she stays silent, but—there’s wetness on her fingers, stones tangled her hair, and she can hear them, the distant roar of oceans, closer, a bright buzz of laughter like sunlight and something else, a tremble, not-human, humming under her skin and—

Flora screams, louder, sound tearing from deep inside, struggles, kicking and tugging, and pulling on the shackles on her wrists and ankles. 

“Did you not hear me?” The woman says, irritated. Hears heavy footsteps coming towards and her heart is pulsing loud in fear but Flora doesn’t stop, raises her voice louder and louder, throat sore, even as a hand presses on her, so cold, making her flinch and nails curl, sharp, on her pulse point—no matter what, she keeps fighting. It’s all she has left. 

“Fine.” The woman says, darkly. “I will just make you then.” And nails dig into her skin, and Flora sees—a flash of something with teeth, glimpse of eyes that burns and Flora finds herself terrified, unable to breathe—

and at that moment, terror clawing inside her lungs, there’s a press of warmth, light and—

Do not fear They laugh, bright. And everything stops—the world goes deathly quiet and dark—’till abruptly, in a gust of wind, there’s noise everywhere, giggles, ocean waves, bell chimes, thunder, glass and loudest, laughter.

(The woman didn’t stand a chance.)