Temptation of her Flame ✔️

chapter one

hey! i took a break from wattpad, and i'd been thinking of His Fire and how I wrote it before i even became a teenager. i want to improve it and make it a story worth reading, so here you go!

thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who decided to hop onto this story. i'll make it worth your time. i'll be putting songs above as i did in the original for you to enjoy while reading. if you want to talk whenever to ask for updates, and things you might want to see (ehem, smu-), text me through Instagram, @jayzel_f

i'll love to connect with my readers, too. ENJOYYY

(all too well, ten minute version by taylor swift)

ARIA

Light flared as abrupt as a thunderclap, and stars faded by dragging themselves from my vision. Dreadfully slow, like a bloodied heap of flesh clawing across a rough surface and leaving specks of gore.

The bottle shattered upon impact, falling like autumn leaves. Whereas the latter would've tickled my skin, leaving traces of kisses, the former sliced it. Profuse red. So much red. I despised the colour almost as much as I did my father.

Run away. Run, and do not turn. Run, like a pack of wolves are trailing behind.

Would the blood blind me if I forced open my eyes? I was tempted to try and wished I had the courage. I pleaded with the skies, certain that they were shielding my mother from the cruelty present from the world where I existed. I begged often, wishing the skies would finally welcome me with stretched arms and the benevolence I yearn for.

I wanted to die.

"Coward. Look up at me," he slurred. He was drunk, just like the day before, just like every day since my mother passed on a month ago. He'd begun descending into a crazed, depressing version of himself. My mother never once said that he was a lunatic. "Look. Up."

I couldn't open my right eye. I could feel its terrible burn as the thick crimson liquid reached a hand into them. The stinging sensation suggested that I was still very much alive, and I wanted it to cease. I can't anymore. I can't.

"Please," I whispered, lips cracked and voice brittle. "Don't."

"Open your eyes. Both of them." My father was never an authoritative figure. He was harsh at times, compassionate to my mother and treated me like gold. A month ago, I discovered that his kindness stemmed from his wife's presence. With her gone, I was nothing but dirt. The type that stuck to your shoes even after years of rough scrubbing. The type that became a burden to keep.

"You are not worthy of the life I gave," he grumbled. "You're too weak; incapable of strength."

I inhaled, preparing myself. I had begun a silent cry, and a fraction of my thoughts hoped that tears could rinse the blood from my eyes. But it flowed from my skull, pooling viciously and endlessly.

I peeled my right eye open. Then immediately shut them. The pain of the sting multiplied by dozens.

Slap.

His hands were bloodied now. And for an irrational, stupid moment, I worried that he might be hurt. I could tell, through blurred eyesight, that the stain on his palm irritated him. He muttered some profanities, kicked me hard in the ribs, and left.