The old life was gone. She saw it anew, reflected in his bleeding eyes - A rancid hole in her vision, and she did not see his parted jaws. There was the sting as flesh succumbed to sharp tooth and wicked claw, allowing entry to piercing pain and the welling of sweet wine. Her body was not her own; It was numb, so numb.
There was no invasion. She was docile and compliant, laying still there on the cold hard ground. Moonlight oozed on slippery blood, turning it black where it stained silver pelt. Lapis Lazuli saw everything, but shed no more tears, for the monster had stolen her heart and her ability to love and her need to be afraid.
Afterward she remained, crumpled like a hunted fowl in the mass of her own dead feathers, a folded and discarded napkin stained by the rich man's meal. Listless, like the balmy breeze that swept away the scent of still-warm betrayal, and carried it off into the traitorous night. But still she was so beautiful, the porcelain doll. So bitterly, bone-cold beautiful.
Sweet-blushed silver maw had opened to scream once, but he had robbed the songbird of her warble. She would not sing again.
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