I changed my mind with what I had planned to write for this prompt. My initial idea had been light. I feel I've moved away from my dark side over this past year, having written more science fiction or dystopian stories, and am going to try and find paths back to it. The struggle is, as always, to find something unique. I like how this one turned out.
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He picked up one of the fragile paper feathers and caressed its edge. It was almost as soft as her skin had been. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply. He could still catch her scent off it. She had made these with such care: cutting them out, shaping them, and then decorating them with the gold spray she’d found in the corner of her room.
He’d forgotten the spray was there. If he’d remembered she might still be with him. He might still be able to touch her and smell her fragrance – a light, citrus fragrance, with an acrid edge. Fear always gave everything an acrid edge. It was a shame.
Few had been as gratifying as her, and now his ability to find others was severely handicapped. Living with one eye made everything difficult, especially hunting for prey. He couldn’t be as swift when snatching them off the street, or able to defend himself when they tried to fight back; it made it easier for them to blindside him. He’d only attempted it once since his injury, and the resultant failure had put him off.
It was a shame she had attempted to escape. He’d planned on keeping her a long time, and although some would stay he still had her, necrophilia was not his thing. He knew others who enjoyed it, but he wasn’t about to share her with anyone – not even in death.
So besides the grave, all he had left were these little trophies reflecting her beauty and delicate nature. And despite the loss of his eye, leading to the loss of her, he secretly liked that she had left such a physical mark on him. He liked that she’d had spirit.