Five Golden Rings

She looked at her hand, her left hand. It felt heavy, leaden, as if her hand had had been drugged. 

On each finger was a gold ring. Solid gold. Cold, humming, and heavy. 

She woke up on Christmas morning. Color from her room had faded. Snow fell against the window. Fire lit up the distance. 

She couldn’t lift her arm. 

Her fingers felt stiff but electric. Her muscles were sore but the skin  crackled. 

There was a note next to her:

“Which one? You must decide.”

She looked at the rings. They were slightly different. A chip here, a smudge there, just a slight difference. 

Why must she decide? 

What was she deciding on?

As she looked over the rings, she chose one she felt suited her best. 

The four discarded rings fell off. 

She heard shouting outside. 

Looking out the window, she could faintly see five figure in the snow. 

They had hoods. Hands tied behind their backs. 

She looked down at the ring on her index finger. She felt how smooth it was. 

A series of loud cracks. 

Four of the figures slumped to snow. The fifth fell to his knees and thanked god, pointing his prayers to her window. 


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