Dee has asked to me to write another short story using the above photo prompt.

It was the smell of lavender that woke her. The long, meadow grass spiked up beside her as she lay still in the field. She couldn’t remember lying down as she’d cut across the dumbles to get to her friends house faster, but that didn’t seem to matter now. The recent uneasiness had retired and it was somewhat liberating. The sun was brighter and lower than when she’d started out.
Standing up was effortless and she felt lighter somehow. She walked slowly forwards towards the direction of the sun, her tread barely making any dents in the grass. The birdsong was beautiful and seemed to mix with other euphoric sounds that she had never noticed before. As she walked forward and listened, voices in the distance became apparent. Soft whispers beckoning. The sound of love. The sunlight expanded across the sky with every step taken as though ready to blanket her, compelling her to reach it before it disappeared. She seemed to float towards it like a weightless, helium balloon released to the sky. Bewitching purity lay ahead but something…something repulsive and icky made her want to look back. Before she could, she heard the voices and song disentangle; a voice she recognised urged her to keep moving forward.

“Grandma?” she thought, “is that you?”

She knew that it was even though that would be impossible. That would also explain the smell: the lavender cookies she used to make on a Sunday afternoon.

Reality dissipated in her wake as she connected with the callings. She wasn’t walking anymore but somehow gliding; becoming feathery and fragile like Gaussian in the wind until the light seared through her fibres and released her.

********************

She was perfect. Better than the other hard faced whores that went before her. This one was angelic and had given him the rush that he’d been yearning for. That was evident by the wet, sticky seed that had exploded in his pants as she’d faded away. He didn’t know how long he’d knelt beside her body because the high had engulfed him. Now he felt sated with a beautiful sense of calm as he fanned her golden hair out in-between the grass. Maybe number seven wasn’t such a bad number after all. Ask anyone to choose a number between one and ten and they’d usually always pick seven. People were fucking stupid. But, he’d remember her.

He brought her soft, pale hands together and stroked the smooth skin. Extinguished before she became sullied. She even smelt new.
He placed his calling card between her hands so they’d know it was him. Seven, perfectly cut, identical sprigs of lavender to cleanse and soothe her. To keep her sleeping.