The sizzle of burnt flesh fills the air. Its a hair-raising fragrance that speaks of death and guilt alike. Still, she revels in the smell, for it carries the knowledge of harm that she deserves. Finally, she is punishing herself for all the mistakes she has made in the past. Her parents, her friends, the thistle. . . they would be proud, seeing her like this. They would be grateful, even. Now, they don't have to harm her; she's doing it for them. For them, always. The thistle isn't alive anymore to witness this little deed. But, as blood drips onto the pale moss-covered stone, she cherishes the thought of his pride.
