A trophy

100 words x 365 days

He raked his fingers through her soul, picking little pieces off for the times he felt the lowest. Stripping her down to skin and bones, he took everything left of her like a vulture picking clean a rotting carcass of withered and dried bones. She felt every slash to her body, sometimes with his words, and other times he used his fists. She was his puppet, his doll to destroy. As she took her last breath, he stood over her, proud of his accomplishment. He gained another soul, another trophy for his wall. You see, he was a collector, and she was his prize.

A.J. Luna

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