White hands grasp a blood red rose.

Limbs cracking, eyes gray with secrecy.

A deep, sharp voice, laced with poison, a purr echoing through the darkness.

Black dirt in her mouth, her nose.

The glow of a flaming candle, a screech in the night.

A pretty face beneath frosted glass.

A coffin.

She is just where she belongs.

My knife, pulled from her heart with shaking fingers, crusted with blood.

She is dead. I am sure of it.