What a beautiful flower she was, or had been, beautiful like an orchid, other days delicate like a rose. Now where she lays, there is an empty ivory shell, hard as a rock, cold as ice, just like ivory. She is not perfect anymore. Before, I craved her, now I could only think of how badly she needed a bath. I wanted to bring her home, wash off the dirt, and clean her face for dried bloodstains, it even made cracks on her chin. A thought ran through my mind, I rapidly suppressed it, what a silly thought. Twisted might had been a better word, at least in this obscure situation.
Rain was dripping on the roof, through it. Hitting her face with a certain violence. For a moment I thought she was crying, but the silence and lack of inhalation gave her away. She was gone.
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