She was his daisy.
Simple, and so delicate.
He could smell her.
Touch her.
Bend her to his will if he pleased.
He controlled her.
Or maybe it was her…
Controlling him.
Sometimes he liked to think that.
He thought he was the one holding his daisy together in this forsaken place.
In his twisted garden.
But his garden held secrets.
Secrets the flowers would never spill.
Of who they yielded to.
Called master.
Perhaps he was the pawn in her game.
Perhaps she was the puppeteer
the schemer
the graceful assassin
Perhaps it is actually her garden, he contemplated.
Lifting an innocent daisy to his nose.
But then I would be gravely mistaken, he thought.
Crushing his daisy with the unmistakable swiftness of how he would swing his scythe.
He smiled maliciously as he watched the meek petals scatter in the wind.
Too fragile.
She was just his prisoner…
And nothing more.