Peace
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Danielle's life should've been normal. She wanted it to be, but that idea was thrown out of the window the day that two important people left her.
If it were so, maybe she wouldn't be laying on the ground, clutching a probably fatal stab wound, coughing up blood with short, raspy breaths.
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A butchered version of a haiku poem.
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We don't have love, we show mercy. What you want is knife or tears, roses or escape. Dust, fear, blood. The woman on the ground is twitching, blood constantly spilled from her mouth, the whites of the eyes all over the blood, she mumbles in a gravel friction rustle sound. She sobbed, unwilling to die, the body to the man wriggling, as if in need of help. She has no idea what's going on, poor little thing.
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