Image courtesy of Roka Walsh
Branches stretch bony fingers to stop the inevitable, but it’s too late. They’re on the ground now, her throat clutched in his hands. She claws and hits and fights.
Until she doesn’t.
The leaves are silent and still beneath her and the forest holds its breath waiting for the end. Glassy eyes stare at the bloated bellies of the crows. One lifts its head and caws, marking the time of death as a new soul alights, joining them on the outstretched branch.
The murder is complete.