In walks a little man, with a crooked smile and mismatched eyes.
His voice is filled with glee and giddy, almost like a child.
“What a pretty little flower! I think I shall take it and make it mine.”
Our gaze falls on the pretty little flower whose hair is as white as snow and as black as coal.
Her gaze is as cold as the weather outside and her voice is nearly the same.
“Be careful, wicked man, for this flower has thorns.”
The focus is back on the man with the crooked smile and mismatched eyes.
His smile falters and his gaze is hateful and insane.
“Oh but my pretty little flower, I have dealt with many thorns in my time.
You are not the first and you will probably not be the last.”
The pretty little flower does not wilt nor does she back down.
She speaks with no emotion as she folds her hands across her lap.
“Wicked, silly man. You do not know what kind of flower you wish to pluck.
This flower has a touch of DEATH within it's petals.”
The man with the crooked smile and mismatched eyes freezes in place.
The smile on his face disappears and a child like anger flows into his eyes.
Words escape his mind as he steps forward and reaches to caress the flower's hair.
The pretty little flower did not say a word but looked up into the mismatched eyes of the man with the crooked smile.
Her hair was as smooth as the silk that made her black cloak.
The man with the crooked smile and mismatched eyes felt a fever pass over his skin.
“I think that I will now have a taste of my pretty little flower.”
He licked his lips as his eyes flickered.
Again the pretty little flower said not a word.
He brought his lips to hers and kissed her with such passion.
The man with the crooked smile and the mismatched eyes then fell to the ground.
The pretty little flower then smiled as she then stood and walked over his still body.
“Silly, wicked man. You should not try to kiss death.”
She then put her pitch black hood over her head and grabbed her scythe.
With a laugh that could melt bones she dissipated into the night.