The smell of wet bones in a mass grave, slaked with lime. He surveyed his work - his masterpiece - with it's stretched, hollow parchement skin the colour of dusk over the sea. Her still-warm cheeks were streaked with mascara, and her voice was still pooling on the earth around his ankles. Staining his boots. Clinging.
The hot red mist on the wind had drawn the animals, the scavengers... And the prey whimpered lamely in the glow of his cigarette, while the predator waited for lady time to finish the inextricoble, dripping orchestra that his razorblade had begun some six hours earlier.
It was a gift to her, you see.
:/remote data transmission received from field transponder [ergo_tel]
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