Walk The Line

only fools cross the line

She left him laying between grave stones broke before dawn and beaten after sunlight, "monsters don't have place in the world". She muttered as if she was reassuring herself as she recalled looking at the man she once called lover. The man walked closer pressing the shaking barrel of the gun into his forehead, "then show me where monsters belong". A shaky breathe. Tear streaks down a soft pale cheek. Bang. A smear of red. It was all done. She pulled her coat closer, hugging her body. The chill October air had set in but she couldn't feel it, only numb with the thoughts that would keep her up the rest of her life. Click.bang.red.click.bang.red.click.bang.red. maybe that was the worst part, she never thought red to be a visceral color, she never associated red with violence, she had always picture the red of roses or the red of a child cheeks. Perhaps it was fitting she had met her lover in the spring morning of red roses and shot him in the december night surrounded by blood and death. Red. That's what their relationship was always was. Sweet but violent born out of tip toe in a line that was asking to be crossed. Stretching to far between one end or the other, never a happy medium. Always red.
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(A/N: should this be a whole story?)