Her eyes were open. He was handing her something, a wispy white rose, a token. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, the guilty stone that choked her, and accepted somewhat greatfully.
It was soft, smooth as satin, thin and delicate; feather-like. Her eyes were open,
but as she bent to smell the gift
a pale white haze flooded her senses. Her eyesight filled with milky blindness, her nose smelled only the sweet scent. Her lips moved, but felt only the satin of the petals, and her fingers felt only the ripple of blood pouring from their pricked tips.