Warnings/summary: there's a twist, I'd like to say I'm sorry but I'm not really, pretty sappy + sad.
Her favourite part of him are his hips.
Pointy, delicate, elegant; this boy with colloused palms and scars on arms has the most beautiful hips.
She likes to nip at them, leave a little mark on them (during the day, he presses them and feels the ache of the bruise and knows he's loved - he told her over a glass of wine, a shot glass because he wasn't really supposed to drink, but he loves the taste of rosè).
He's hers, her strength, her vulnerabilities, all rolled up into a person she feels she can't help but love.
He's not perfect, but that doesn't matter. She loves him in the way she loves almond trees: unconditionally, everlastingly, wholly.
That's why it was much worse when those hips were twisted, bent, snapped, deformed, on the morticians table.
It's him.
It's him, him him him him.
Snapped.
The hand leading her out of the room may as well have been the barrel of a gun.
It had already killed her, she thought; it would be courteous if it could finish the job.
YOU ARE READING
Tidbits
RandomPreviously named 10 minutes a day, this book features drabbles and blurbs of any style or genre, written about anything, anywhere. (I will include warnings in the beginning of each part, and if you feel in any way uncomfortable, then you are in no w...
