Summary: A contrast between then and now; the bedroom and the morgue; vibrancy and lifelessness.
Author's Note: Written for Gabby Tuesday, for the prompt 'contrast'.
Her skin is warm against him; her legs entwined with his beneath the cosy layer of blankets.
Her skin is cold to his touch, chilled by many hours within the mortuary drawer.
Her voice is low and amused, seductive as she murmurs into his ear.
The only sound is the low hum of the cooling system; her words are forever muted.
His hands are sure as they move over her body, his massages and caresses drawing sighs from her throat.
His hand shakes a little as he touches her unresponsive cheek; a silent apology for failing her when she needed him the most.
Her hair fans out over his pillow, a glossy black against the white linen.
He smoothes her listless jet locks back from the china-white flesh of her forehead, swallowing hard.
Her lips curve in a smile that manages to be lascivious and innocent, all at once.
Her slightly parted lips, devoid of the dark lipstick she loved to wear in life, are pale; bluish in death.
Her eyes gleam with intelligence and mischief, tempting him beyond belief.
He knows better than to look beneath her closed eyelids; knows those eyes he used to love will be expressionless, their once vibrant green irises milky and clouded.
He traces the spiderweb design on her neck with a finger, then her jawline, and she tilts her head to allow him better access.
The gaping, now bloodless slash across her neck is vicious, deep and all too real, starting just where her tattoo ends and curving under her chin like a macabre smile.
He responds to her playful teasing with almost reluctant laughter, comfortable enough around her to let down his guard.
He cries silently, alone in the morgue, clutching the hand of the woman he's lost and vowing without words that he will see justice done.