The discolored foot, sundered just above the ankle bone, had been laid on the granite countertop for me to find.

Mason set his pint glass on the countertop. The radio was playing in the background, a tellyplay that he’d listened to religiously over the past few nights. His partner hated it. Stuck in a car, watching a club, full of punters looking for a good time, spending more money in a night than he’d make in a year as a copper.

The discoloured foot, sundered just above the ankle bone rested on the formica counter. It had been left there for him to find. Positioned. Arranged, like a bouquet of flowers. For one fleeting moment he thought about swiping it onto the floor, just to deny the sick sonofabitch the satisfaction of having beaten him again.

It was Charlotte. Before he even read the ankle bracelet, with the little silver flowers and name plaque, he knew it was her. Seventeen. His pint was collecting condensation, running in small rivulets until it threatened to reach the only part of her he knew the police would find.

Using a tea-towel he gingerly teased the rough cardboard note from between the toes. And there, in immaculate handwriting, were the words that had teased him for more than three years.

“The more a thing is perfect, the more keenly it will feel both pleasure and pain.”

Prompt originally posted by ashsgirl on reddit and received 4 upvotes.

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