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The lilies were a sweet, sinful red that they shouldn't have been. Lilies are never red. They are pure as pure and so white they make your teeth burn. Lilies are soft and silk and morning and honeyed words on bee-stung lips and they shouldn't be red. The words looped through her head, frantic and startled. Not red not red not red.

Then she realises her vision is blurred, and it's misplaced colour, like misplaced feelings, misplaced staining kisses, darting her skin to pieces, as if. Holding her tight, in a way arms never could. How she wishes she could go, but his velvety caress has slipped into a tight four finger grip on her brittle wrist, and she hasn't noticed because all she can see is lilies.

His breath ran ragged over her face, it was dark somehow, in a way that she wasn't. Please, please, please and it is all she can think to say, except the words are trapped in her throat. She is not crying, because she knows that doesn't help, but he is, even through his harsh smile and the gasping breaths. The bricks score through her cheap t-shirt, and she is no longer a material girl. They belong on the high street, curled up with a DVD on the sofa, clubbing on Saturday nights. And here she is in the car park. It's sultry cold, and winds cries through her hair.

Her body is not her body, and it takes her a minute to realise why she can see lilies. She blinks, twice for luck, and they are gone, and all she can see is the rip curdled mouth and eyes that are darted with anger. She doesn't know why he is angry because there's nothing she did wrong. All she can think about is her wrist. It hurts against the cold wall, little pieces of cement embedding into her skin. Flush red roses illuminate her where his fingers pepper her with faithless bruises. The wrist is thin, fragile. She is thin, fragile. She wanted lilies at her funeral.