Burn

Graphite struck the paper, one line flowing into another as she bent over the narrow desk, pouring her soul onto the page.

From the silver lines rose her demons, the nightmares she worked so hard to keep from the world.

Her father, belt in hand, eyes cold and unfeeling.

The girls she once had called friends, their laughter and snide comments echoing through her head.

They took shape on the paper, bit by bit, and when she was done she reached deep within her pocket and removed the lighter.

It trembled in her hand, a delicate flame licking at the paper.

She watched the edge buckle and blacken, spreading with each second.

Before long there was nothing left, safe for a thin line of ash.

The girl let out a sigh of relief, daily ritual complete.

The practice didn't make her demons any less real, but with time they too would be overcome.