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He was lying on a bed of orchids, unconscious. The white petals

tickled his small, upturned nose, while his curly hair jutted out in

stark contrast to the neatly groomed plants. The light from the

morning sun casted a spotty, jagged pattern of shadows across his

high cheekbones. His lips, cracked and pale, had a tiny trickle of

blood escaping down his porcelain skin.

My Gift

Jules May