Mistake of Madness

Drabble

It wasn’t her. The thought was filled with despair and horror. Everything he’d found and done, all those obscene acts … and it wasn’t even her.

Memory gave him the scent of her hair, wildflowers in June, something citrusy under that. That’s not what he smelled now. Earth and humus and the odour of decay, of the cemetery and the tomb.

Her skin had been like a peach’s. Soft and silky, warm and golden. It wasn’t anymore. It was dry and — and — bits kept falling off. It was stiff and grey.

The ritual had promised her return. But it wasn’t her.