Cent et Un Mots par Jour

Cent et Un Mots par Jour


She's lying in a puddle of her own blood, a large hole in the middle of her chest. The room already smells of death and decay. I bite my lips, repressing a howl that scratches my throat to get away. Her pale skin, paler than it was, is smeared with red drops, and her big blue eyes are looking blindlessly at the ceiling. I'll never hear her laugh again. She won't leave a noisy kiss on my cheek anymore, like she used to when she left home for school. The face of her murderer appears in front of me, the ghost that he'll be soon. A coppery taste fills my mouth. It's the taste of revenge, the taste of bad blood being spilled on the floor. I want my teeth to sink in the flesh of my ennemy. I'm going to tear his heart apart ; that's exactly what he's done to me. My chest hurts and I double up in pain. I walk to her and kneel. Under my palm, her flesh is cold when I close her eyes forever.



Claire Annovazzi

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