A PURSE OF LIPS, A TWITCH OF MIRTH, AND HAUNTY HONEY EYES were the first to greet her dearest doctor. Was the scene hard to stomach? Surely a madam of field medicine bore witness to many horrors⎯⎯⎯one more crumpled body, depleted of a soul, wouldn’t constitute to such aghast.
Yet, there she was, an angel nearly sunken to her knees, almost as if succumbing to fading hope. And it was in that moment, an unspoken analogy presented itself in the midst of their exchange. The Good Doctor’s gun, holstered at her hip, glinted with the last of the fleeting moon’s light. Outside, a storm was closing in and like clouds of impeding doom snuffing the gallant satellite above, the victim’s blood, turning black with the lack of light, crept towards towards her, threatening to soak into the fabric of her tights.
Perhaps, in retrospect, it wasn’t just the scene that instilled the intensity in her question, rather Widow’s regard of human life. In the fact she had no regard. She stood, poised, no shudder or quiver in sight to shatter the near perfect fluidity of her fingers slotting another bullet into her gun.
She was akin to death itself. Taking with no concern of who it took. She was the darkness that came after death, stripping the vibrant color of red from the life force leaking onto the rustic wood boards underneath their feet.
“A job, my dear.” She spoke evenly, the mirth had slipped away and in its place remained a canvas of nonchalance. "Nothing personal.”
The rain begun to hit the walls of this decrepit place with such ferocity the wood groaned and death masquerading as a woman wondered towards the tall windows. “I’d lodge a bullet between your pretty eyes, but it seems death has already touched you still, little bird.”
And with that, she vanished, lightning flashing in her place.
@herdiligence | crime based prompts + murder
