Was she dead?
Surely there couldn’t be so much pain after death?
Was she dying, spiraling into an abyss of indescribable pain toward the end of the tunnel where not a light but the fires of hell awaited the one who so proudly thought she was in charge of fire?
She wasn’t a bad person compared to the criminals and lunatics who stalked the world with their sinister presences and saw life as a game of win and lose. She didn’t deserve burning in hell.
But she was burning indeed. She, the one who had set buildings on fire and walked through—no, danced with—flames without so much as having a hair singed.
The pain that came with blackness and unbearable heat climbed up a notch and another until incoherent thoughts were impossible, and Felicia would have resorted to prayers if she had been able to.
When she was sure she’d die any instant, because no human could be allowed to go through such immense suffering without being offered some kind of salvation, she felt another explosion.
With it came the sensation of flying, of being weightless and bodiless and floating free like a bird.
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