He stood staring at her. Blood dripping down her arms, wrapping and intertwining around and in-between her fingers. A puddle formed below each lazy dead hand. No ripples came from the hands and yet the blood seemed ever changing, growing.
His gaze rose to her face. The blood had drained from her body, and yet her face still flush. Lips still beautifully and delicately painted pink. Her lids still held a slight purple shadow, with the eyeliner still perfectly traced. A beauty queen even in death, no matter how tragic.
He noticed one obscure detail, a small scratch on her neck, starting one side at the artery.
Had that been her original plan? Slit the throat and not the wrists?
He shuddered and turned his head away. He had hated her; wished her to be gone.
But not this way.
He wondered had she struggled. Or peacefully accepted the fate she set in motion.
Before letting the images create a horrific scene he turned and walked out the door. Hoping to never see her again.
Unfortunately, we don’t always get what we wish for.