Margot's death.

Margot is now vivisect and atrophied, now lifeless and spent of breath. Her final moments a smile to wrathful possibility, a masterpiece of twisted artistry. Her passing, a five second prelude of life into an expression of death that autopsy has rendered free of sane form, butterflied unrecognisable. She is barely the same individual, an impossible doppleganger; an ornamental dame with a scorpions tail protruding from her buttocks, pinions lining her arms and shoulders and big scheming talons bunched around a branch on which she is displayed. She is now truly one of a kind. And watching this horror, imagining what cruel intentions it could harbour, it becomes almost impossible to imagine her as a mother, a lover, a daughter or a sister. The chimera has a head with only mouths where an array of sensory organs should sit. 'May we place this creature in your dormatory at night?' is carved beneath Margot, graffitying her branch. Margot is forgotten, her love has happened but is forgotten, her horror is imaginary but the horror will be remembered. The horror is all there ever was.