Crimson - Melinda Jean

Creeping in the crack after the sun has just melted a crimson line appears, as if the crime does not matter, as if nothing of consequence exists in the breath into another. She lie on the carpet her blood slowly soaking in, giving her warmth. She can move her head, just slightly and there through the looking glass she can see the slash across her throat had dripped and pooled, no longer the beaded look it had earlier. 'It looks worse than it feels,' she thought, still numb from shock she supposed. She didn't feel angry as she imagined she might feel being a chosen victim to some altered mind's attempt to conclude her life. Maybe others never imagined death and those moments into entering. There was an odd sense of peace and the room was expanding as the light and colors slowly left, another melting, like her body's heavy limp-like quality melding in the rug, the floor, becoming a piece of this house, her home, and the walls have scooped at the edges like a cup, she was being drunk into some other color, crimson the color beneath the door it filled her pouring in from underneath, filling her backwards.