THREAD

We don't have love, we show mercy.



What you want is knife or tears, roses or escape.

Dust, fear, blood.

The woman on the ground is twitching, blood constantly spilled from her mouth, the whites of the eyes all over the blood, she mumbles in a gravel friction rustle sound. She sobbed, unwilling to die, the body to the man wriggling, as if in need of help.

She has no idea what's going on, poor little thing.