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I never believed that I was malleable, having been raised in the cold.
A constant state of hardened pressure, ready to explode; like a diamond that didn't quite make the cut.
I thought I had it covered, was an expert, inpenetrable. But even the thickest ice can melt and sub-zero survival techniques won't defend you against the rage of a forest fire. Nothing can prepare you for the blistering heat, the stench in the air, the searing agony of your own flesh peeling away from your bones and the ache that comes after it. Jesus Christ, the ache. You don't get to think about that when you're burning and your blood is racing through your veins like an electric current and your heart is pounding in your eardrums. No, you don't get to think about it. It's afterwards, when the silence is deafening, and you're watching the charred remains of everything you love flutter down from the sky like acrid, blackened snow. That's when it really hits you that you let the fire in of your own accord, and it destroyed you.
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