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Reality warps maybe at dawn, in this world with no sun, no moon, perhaps under pregnant thunderclouds that roll and tumble, rumble and roar across a darkened purple sky.

“Life is only perception,’ he quips.

She rages against this voice in her head, this irritation that has been her only companion for the duration of her imprisonment, even though it gives the voice pleasure by doing so. It is a ritual they have completed countless times over two millennia, one that he never seems to tire of. But this time her rage doesn’t spew up fire born, but is instead frozen. Her breath eases between frosted lips in dry ice clouds that gently land against the spelled crystal that encases her and the tiniest crack appears. At first she thinks it an illusion of her bent mind, a product of wishful thinking until she reaches with orange metallic nails and feels the flaw catch against one of the edges.  Digging, scraping, and chipping she ever so slowly widens the fissure fueled by imagining the shock and surprise on his face when she rakes it with her hatred, smashing his nose flat into the back of his head, not killing him, but leaving him maimed, suspended in the dull gray space of lifeless living.

“You’ll never be free if you continue like this,” he says.

A smile curves her blue lips and this time she does not rage because between two fingers now torn and bleeding she rolls hard-won grains of dirt.

The Dark Queen comes.

***

Inspired by Trifecta’s prompt of the week.

CRACK

 3a : a narrow break : fissure      b : a narrow opening —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out

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