When she had asked him what death was, the only thing he could think of was the ebb and flow of darkness in his eyes, the drip of red that stains the sink, and the ocean of wails that die in his throat as he looks into his rust-crusted mirror; a old mirror that held the reflection of a tattered, torn, and tired creature that he had only begun to realize was himself.
He decides that yes, that's death.
When she answered her own question of what death was, she murmured about the paleness that tainted his skin, the blood that inked her shirt slowly, and the shiver that spiralled down her back as she held onto his cold, bluing fingers.
And for eternities, he laughs at her answer with a resounding echo throughout the universe; she was wrong--he wasn't death, no, he was only dead.
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A/N: Just something I wrote to exercise my rusting creative writing skills. Hope you like <3
Addy
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colours
Random"can you paint with all the colours of the wind," a bunch of scenes accompanied with plots I am yet to figure out © s.addy, 2014-2015
