She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, her face marked by the tracks of her tears. Lying in front of her on the crumpled sheets is a knife; its blade clean and clinical, its handle ebony black.
Blind to everything else, she reaches out and lets her fingers caress the cold steel. A photo balances on her interlaced legs; the image a couple, smiles and love adorning their faces.
She has the knife in her hands now. Almost playfully she runs the blade across her ivory skin. Scarlet rain begins to fall.
Droplets settle against the glass of the photo frame; the white sheets becoming stained with a myriad of pinks and reds.
The vicious teeth bite deeper into her flesh, and the rain becomes a river. Maniacally she draws the now dulled metal against the virgin skin of her other wrist. Again and again. With each movement more ruby liquid flows.
Suddenly she drops the knife and her hands fly to her face, sepia opaque beads flying everywhere. Covering her eyes with her bloodstained hands, she screams.
It is the scream of death.
I Grieve... 