Last thing I heard was the train’s whistle, shrill. The last thing I smelled was the smoke.
Flushed and furrowed. She wore that dress again. Spun silk, hiding her. More hidden than when we met. More to hide.
She writhes.
Rise and fall. Chest supple, burning. I’ve held her like a flower in my hand, and bled. To pluck her once, and watch her wilt. It was meant to make an end—
And now?
The stains I left. And scars. All hidden.
Her eyes, wet. Cunt wet. Dew on a soft, red petal. Something with poison in it.
“Don’t go.”
