(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

The pain is quick this time, and the night cloaks me again.
~~~~~
She holds me against her, the warm press of her flesh, the soft perfumed
scent of her hair. I can feel her smiling against my chest, and I return the
gesture.
We float in the white void, she and I, weightless and dancing like the
intertwined veins of a leaf on the wind.
And it was with a deep sense of duty, with boundless purpose that I wrapped
my hands around her skull, and twisted. There is the crack of bone, the gush
of spinal fluid and crushed neural tissue. She dies quickly, the soft smile never
leaving her lips.
All, all, I've killed them all. No sound of flies or wriggle of warm maggots in
sweet sores and wounds. The sour stench of offal and flesh, raw and cold.
There is nothing here to take them nor consume but blood-hungry roots.
A cold wind wails through the maze, whipping my ruined flesh with countless
accusations. The guilt pierces, tears me up from within like a bellyful of
razors. The ashen, coal-dust taste of shame on my lips.
Vines curl and ground swallows like a water dirge, and the cackling voice
breaks in once more in perfect clarity, like the snap of bone or the creak of
old wood.
"Oh, my pretty little puzzle, you have killed them and so many more that I
have lost count of them all."
My voice is trapped in my throat, not even the softest whine escapes.
"Come to me, my poppet... come to Ravel in her black-barbed maze. Come
dream with me..."
And then I awoke.
~~~~~
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