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Rage was a curious thing indeed.

It was rage that had left broken bones in her wake, it was rage that swallowed her in an abyss of darkness, it was rage that isolated her from humanity, and it had been rage that made her break Steve Harrington's nose in fourth grade because she was sick of the cruelty that coated his every word like sin and vile devastation because he believed himself to be better than everyone with the taunting jeers of his friends around him...looking down at her for the fury in her eyes and the hatred in her veins that leeched it's way out of her with malice and callous hatred.

She couldn't help the shape her trembling hands had taken, the way her bloodied knuckles stretched above her prison of furious flesh, the way her palms had curled like rotting petals of a flower to clench into her shaking fists that was stained with the sins of her everlasting ruin. She couldn't let go of the violence and that is what burned right through her, somehow half girl and half knife with her sharp edges that cut at anyone that got too close to the damnation inside of her, that cut at anyone that could see the monster within, the monster the world had made of her...always too fearful that they'd hunt her just like they'd done to her ancestors centuries ago upon the burning pyres of hell.

In stories, in myths, in history there had always been a recurring theme, an underlining current of hunt the witch. The women in Salem, the beautiful and the damned, forced into the flames because of jealousy and strife, their haunting screams staining the land with the whispers of wraiths for the rest of the years in dreadful vengeance and agony. The harpies, the sirens pushed beneath the waves coming back with a hunger for flesh and blood between their teeth, the Medusa, the woman with snakes for hair and venom for her betrayal, nothing more than a girl ruined by the gods she prayed for and then hunted again and again and again because they could.

Blair Jones used to wonder how many monsters had been made of her? How many stories had men, had everyone twisted of her to make her out to be the villain where instead she was the victim, once tearing herself apart to be accepted and in turn scoffed at because she was too loud, too quiet, too extreme because she was either a forest fire or a tsunami...the world was disgusted by her blood but by god did they love to watch her bleed.

And she supposed that that was why hidden under the rage and the frustration that she held so much love in the scarred turmoil of her heart for her grandmother, for the town nut-job, the woman dancing upon the edge of sanity and using the line as a mere tightrope...because her grams had taught her that no matter what she did, they'd find a way to scoff at the girl with too much anger beneath her flesh, they'd look at the scars on her thighs, on her knuckles, on the palm of her hand and laugh because they were too shallow to see past the destruction she'd painted across her body in the desire to be seen...never noticing the magic that blistered it's way behind her eyes and curled around her veins like a blessing.

Turn your pain into power, the words that had been scratched at the wall of her mind by virtue and divinity, pushed into her, trained into her until the storm would pass overhead, her grams swift to tell her that she couldn't be the type to break herself down into bite size pieces, that she had to stay whole and let them choke because their grief was theirs and not her bloodied responsibility. Turn your pain into power, they echoed and they grew, they blossomed inside of her until their engraved letters were carved into the hollow of her bones, always there, always waiting for a moment to blow because her rage was a bomb and it was always ready to explode...and as the years flew by, that was the words that stayed.

Because if there was a God, if there was a higher power that had tried to fucking ruin her, then he was going to have to beg for her forgiveness in the flames...just after he sat back and watched as she burned the world, burned his creations whole because of the rage he'd cursed her with...after all, a witch was only a wicked thing of destruction and fire...and who was she to deny her nature?

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"I'M GOING TO FUCKING DESTROY YOU."