The Violet Blossom

The cold feel of leather pressed against his fingertips, like a chunk of ice that would never melt.

He used the last scraps of strength left in his body to clutch it tightly. The rough edge of the leather band dug into his palm, bringing a faint but distinct sting. His nails sank deep into his palm, leaving crescent-shaped white marks, yet he felt no pain at all.

Only the vast, empty wound in his chest, brutally carved out of him, gave a silent, heart-rending cry with every beat of his heart. The wound was deep enough to expose the bone, forever laid bare to the cold air, never scabbing over, never healing.