It's one of those occasions where I know what I'm looking at, but my brain hasn't quite caught up to the realization yet. Finally, it does. I let out a yelp, jumping backwards with wide eyes when it finally hits me. Inside of the rose is a severed finger – the skin a pale color as blood dribbles on to my desk. There's a fucking finger in a rose on my fucking desk.
PERIOD OUR NIGGA TOOK CARE OF IT
