The Only Red That is Beautiful
Death can be like water.
There are flames, red and angry and striking, licking at her feet before lifting from her head, and there is the pain, straight through and plain thorough, and then, there is water, filled with relief that comes with a sense of floating, as though she is dangling in the realm of nothingness.
She hangs on for a long time. But she is not aware of it.
At least, not at first. Then again, this is a mindless void.
One that is meant to hold nothing but the sensation of stagnancy – of slumber. She sleeps soundly as if there is nothing in the world left for her to come back to – this is, of course, false.
But she has no knowledge to base it on.
For a long time, she is a blank, hollow canvas. The wooden frame is there, but there is nothing else to see.
Until she starts being stitched back – one by one, slowly, surely.