Overwhelming, thick, consuming blackness, as far as the eye could see. The kind of blackness that wanted to destroy a person's soul. The kind of blackness that could take all that was pure and good in a person and corrupt it, change it, strike it down and turn it the same pitch colour.
As black as the hearts of the villians of faery tales told long ago. Black as the hearts that still beat even today, in this cold modern age, where the dark beasts of yesteryear walk the streets with the faces of human beings, waiting to lure in and destroy their next unsuspecting victims.
Blood red. Blood running red down a cooling arm, an arm attached to a body that will no longer breath, no longer eat, no longer cry, no longer dream, just sleep. Cuts deep into the dying flesh beget rivers of red, red blood, no longer rushing, now just a faint trickle, staining the floors, staining the sheets, staining her flesh. Staining.
The colour of innocence, the way she wants to feel. Not this overbearing, omnipotent guilt. The guilt for the sins of the world, resting upon her slender shoulders, shoulders not made to bear the weight they now do, shoulders that ache with the pain of it all, of all the guilt.
An unseeing eye, the white of it large and unblinking, staring off into the distance, into the souls of those who judged her in life, of those who would judge her still. Auburn irises hidden within the sea of white, darkened to a shade of nearly black, glittering, shining, as if filled with the tears she shed so often in life.