Warnings: Non-graphic violence

She had to go first. Wouldn't shut. Never ever would shut up. Petty, little, meaningless -worrying about him- issues she'd also ramble on about.

Should really seen it coming you think. Your mind is drifting, tumbling through a misty world of then and now and memories and reality and it's starting to get difficult to tell them apart.

You're dead one minute, alive the next and you're kneeling next to her softly stroking over her check while her white eyes stare at you with pained confusion before closing.

She had to go first. You couldn't have stand -letting her see what you've become- letting her live any longer.

The next one bleeds green and blue at the same and you watch fascinated as the pool of blood gets bigger until it surrounds you, almost like the sea and you -are sorry, so sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry- musing a moment about why it makes you want to sit down and hold her hand, makes you want to add another color to the mix. You don't do it, though. You just kick the stupid skateboard out of your way and go.

Not even a hint of green now and you're relieved about that even though you'd never admit it to yourself. She had seen it coming, you think though. Lived too long, saw too much, know too much.
Tried to something. Failed. Again.

The symbol of the sufferer is once again tainted with blood.

She's the last one, or the last you remember it's a whirl of faces and screams and colors and you didn't spare her for any real reason, or that's what you think at least. Maybe you want -her to stop you- to make her pay for what she did, was about to do, is doing at the moment.

She killed you, you kill her and she bleeds purple and even while doing won't stop giggling at about what is dripping from your scratched arm.

You make the laughter stop, though. You make everybody stop laughing.

You hated, hate, will hate, are hating, the laughter. And they all laughed

There is green on your sweater. And yellow and blue and purple and everything is dripping on the floor.

A puddle full of colors, mixing and mixing until they become a dirty brown.
The corner of your mouth is twitching.

It's not enough. There is still red on your shirt. Red in your veins.
Red everywhere you look.
There were so many words stumbling out of your mouth, a never ending stream of them and they were as much -stupid immature insufferable- a way of trying to make them understand as they are a shield.

They can't see if you keep on talking.
They won't see what's really wrong with you if you never shut up.
You couldn't let them see. Ever.

Ghosts can't die, you always thought.
That the afterlife would be eternal.

There's is green on your sweater though. Green and indigo and violet and bronze.

And it's not enough to get the red off your hands.