My Gift - Jules May
He was lying on a bed of orchids, unconscious. The white petalstickled his small, upturned nose, while his curly hair jutted out instark contrast to the neatly groomed plants. The light from themorning sun casted a spotty, jagged pattern of shadows across hishigh cheekbones. His lips, cracked and pale, had a tiny trickle ofblood escaping down his porcelain skin.
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