Iris
It would be a lie to say she was raised as he was–a peasant, she knew, that was used to back-breaking work. It would also be a lie to say that she wasn't amazed at his form when he killed. It was a kind of ritualistic dance that she couldn't seem to forget.
Her umbrella wobbled, threatened to fall, as she was swept away by the morbid beauty, the savagery she had witnessed.
Startling contrast.
His blade. The rain. The corpse before her.
The blood splatters on her white kimono.
The umbrella falls.
An iris blooms in the rain.
