Thoughts drifting through water
The water around her is the perfect temperature. It warms her pale skin and draws out the bone deep cold from her body. Digging the grave had taken far longer than she expected. So much longer than it had taken Ke… no, she will not say her name. She will not even think it. But, yes, disposal had taken so much longer than she had taken to die.
The exertion had warmed her superficially and she had been forced to remove her coat, tossed it aside on the forest floor without care for what might mar its pristine whiteness. but the execution, that necessary action, had chilled her core beyond the reach of any simple physical warming.
She had fulfilled his demand and killed one love to save another. Her love slain to maintain his damned pride. So, she here sits, against all propriety, alone in their bath thinking about a dead woman and her fingers slip lower in the water, sliding back and forth, cool against the obscene warmth of her opening.
In the vastness of the bath, her tears vanish like rain in the ocean.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (1 so far!)
Average reader rating 4.00/5
Such a stark tone to this piece. I am holding my breath to find out what hold her has over her to compel her to take that action that she somehow seems both to regret and to find arousing.
Is this how serial killers are made? By unlocking the doors within a conflicted soul.
- #218 Posted 4 years ago
- Published 4 years ago and featured 4 years ago.
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