Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
The bottle lay, unharmed, beside her on the pavement, its thick glass mocking her, and emerald viscous liquid seeping from its mouth mixing its heady perfume with the sickly sweet fragrance of her own blood.
Its promises spun crystalline webs in her mind even now as she lay, unmoving, on the concrete.
Nothing but snowy white noise filtered through the smog in her brain and she smiled as people began hurrying towards her.
She was still queen of the world, dark faery of the night, raven of midnight black…and her wings still flew in diaphanous shapes as she ignored her ebony hair stuck to her face in sanguine strands.
She couldn’t see her companions’ horrified eyes, or hear their distressed voices as they stared from the scaffolding in disbelief; she couldn’t see her shattered and broken body on the pavement and she was yet to realise that no potion in the world would fix this mess.