Guilt-sped steps stumble closer to their goal. She knows there hasn’t been a day where the memory of loss hasn’t taken away her breath in a sudden, piercingly sharp stab of pain, there hasn’t been a night without a whispered ‘goodnight’ to ears closed eternally. Yet still the guilt. No flowers, no tending, no visits to the grave.
She arrives to find wild flowers quilting freshly weeded earth, dim, pale, pretty...and she remembers Spike’s hands the night before, spread against her skin, grubby fingernails making her lip curl disdainfully as she clawed at him with her own.

Shame joins guilt.


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