See red

You feel nothing. You hear nothing. The smell of the ocean breeze is gone. Your open palm points towards the bitch who hurt your woman.

“Burn.”

A golden flower blooms on the sand. Its beauty would be unmatched, if not for the white stain at its core.

“Burn.”

The flower blooms again. The gaudy white thing turns black, to match its heart.

“Burn.”

The stain raves, as if its ugliness could be forgiven through song.

“Burn.”

Rods of blackened steel dash for your outstretched arm, but they cannot reach, for their mistress has been purified in flame.