I remember the last night I saw her. She staggered along the river, dusty patches of moonlight making her pasty skin appear ghostly. Bones jutted through her skin. Her red-brown hair was tangled into greasy knots. Her glassy eyes gleamed red with the tears of some unforgettable night. Red. White. Red. The colors flashed faster and faster-- oozing into a carousel of shadows. If only the ride had swirled faster-- then I'd never see her fall.
I never saw her again, and I probably never will. Life's only as deep as the grave. How could I ever promise life to her dying face?
