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Then—the final thrust.
Her hips surged forward—not to please, but to shatter. To empty.
He drove into her—deeper than ever before. As if trying to pierce her heart, her soul—and drag it away with him.
And when it happened—
When he emptied himself inside her womb—his heat erupting in a scalding flood, drenching a place that could never conceive, for nothing could live after touching him—
When she screamed—her hoarse cry splitting the night, a blend of triumph and despair, like a king who wins a war only to lose his kingdom—
…she began to turn to dust.
In a silence so terrible it felt sacred.
As if nature itself held its breath, unwilling to witness an ending that had already occurred too many times.
Slowly.
Like desert sand brushed by an evening wind—fine, soundless, without protest.
It started at her toes—her skin cracked, peeled, then crumbled into pale gray powder that fell without a whisper.
Up her calves—muscles that had tensed moments ago now dissolved, like a plaster statue melting under rain, slowly losing its form.
Her thighs—where she had gripped him fiercely—now left only mounds of dust settling onto the sheets, faint impressions in the crimson fabric.
Her abdomen—the place where his seed had been planted—now hollow. Empty. Gone. No trace of life remained, only a void echoing louder than her final scream.
Her chest—breasts that had heaved in panicked breaths now collapsed into tiny clouds that scattered midair, vanishing before they touched the floor.
Her face—eyes still wide open, lips parted in that last cry… disappeared.
Only a faint smile lingered—as if relieved. As if finally freed from a cycle she never understood.
Then—silence.
Only the sound of falling dust.
Slow. One particle at a time.
Like ash after a volcano erupts. Like the remnants of humanity after a nuclear war—nothing left, only unrecognizable traces.
The night wind slipped through the cracked window, carrying fragments of a body no longer whole—dust of her face, her hair, her dress. All mingled, indistinguishable—leaving only scent behind.
The lingering aroma of her body still hung in the air: sweet, warm, human.
The smell of sweat.
Of semen.
Of freshly dried blood.
Of cheap perfume she'd sprayed before stepping onto the stage—a fragile hope now her final memory.
On the worn sheets, now stained brown and white, only a single black dress remained—thin, torn at the thigh, soaked in sweat and memories that never became stories.
And Atticus…
He didn't move.
Didn't turn.
Didn't regret.
Because this wasn't the first time.
And it wouldn't be the last.
The world never let him stop.
And he… never learned to be gentle.
This wasn't an ordinary curse. It was fate. A law of nature that applied only to him: every living being who lay with him would vanish. Shatter. Become dust.
Not because of his cruelty—but because the universe refused to allow witnesses to the sin of love.
As if existence itself erased traces that were never meant to be remembered.
Only Atticus's breath remained—heavy, solitary.
Dust drifted softly—sounding like sand falling onto glass.
The wall clock ticked—slow, cold, indifferent.
Atticus drew a deep breath—then exhaled slowly, as if expelling a soul that was never his.
He rose. Naked. Cold. Alone.
His body bore no wounds, yet every pore carried eternal exhaustion.
The night was still long.
And tomorrow… there would be another woman.
And after that, another.
Because Atticus was never gentle.
And the world never let him stop.
*"I can have anyone. But not a single one can I ever keep."*