Her mouth quirks. The scent of roses emanating from her is deafening, the words she speaks, moreso as she presses harder against his chest. The scent becomes a smell; the smell becomes a reek. Rotten roses fill his nose. He struggles to keep his face as far away from her as possible. But piles of petals pool on top of him, falling. Covering his head. He shakes himself, his hair flying in a rage away from his scalp as he cranes his neck first one way then the other, to avoid the smell of death, buried in the scent of dying flowers.
“Didn’t I say?” the Rose Woman whispers, her voice the dregs of a rosy sunset as the jagged bit of floor he’s holding breaks off in his hand and he falls, finally, “…you have to be dead.”
To Be Continued in: Refusal of the Return.