Cos Maybe We're the Lucky Ones

They found her on the grounds, her hair splayed out on the grass, blood seeping through her fingers, staining the ground a pretty red. She was beautiful there, sprawled across the dirt, her face pale—freckles on the bridge of her nose—her eyes half-closed, hiding whiskey pools—her breath rising her chest, bleeding through the fabric of her blue sweater. (This one was his.)