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  • Every Friday night, she completes a ritual. A ritual that takes her on a journey. A journey that enables her to discover every inch of her soul. She sacrifices herself to the night.

    Adorned in all of her fineries, she aims to rip away the stress recieved from the grindstone that she sits at every day from 9 until 5. She ventures into the dark, nicotene flowing through her body, helping to ease her on her way.

    In the back of her mind sits the teenage dream, an idyllic picture that she has clung onto for what feels like a century. That tall, dark stranger with the inviting smile. The warm radiance, the assurance and strength that she is so desperate to share. The chance to escape from the mundane, and the hope of meeting the one that she could share everything with.

    She blinks, and awakes in her room.

    Fully clothed, she stares at the ceiling, and tries to piece together the night that she has just had. The stale taste of red wine fills her mouth, but no memory returns. She clutches at straws, and wipes away the remains of the crimson smear accross her lips.

    Eyes heavy, and full of doubt, she surrenders to the pulsating menace that grips her head.

    The ritual is over. The sacrifice has been made.
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