Keylockopen
He'd left a trail of blood behind him and two brass keys lying on the mangy carpet, bloodstained and still warm. The bright red looked odd, stark against the pale flooring and walls, and the gold of the keys contrasted almost harshly.
She had always hated sympathy, in any form. She'd always seen it as a kinder, more patronizing version of pity. People would always apologise when they saw her scars, when they were told about the Drowning. As though it was their fault. As though they could have done anything, anything to stop it.
The sun beat heavily against his brow, hot and sweat inducing. Groaning, he stood and cracked his back, panting. God, it was hot out. He gazed at the lonely field, a field he had been farming for the past six hours. The scenery, while pleasant, was now boring.
It was cold, up here. Cold and dark, her thoughts felt slow and sluggish, as though they were being filtered through bathwater. She gazed at the gardens from her viewpoint, the flowers leaving an ache in her chest and a bitter taste in her mouth. Lies, all of it lies.