There were days when the blood was an uncommon shade of red. Unrealistically bright, lacking the van dyke brown and violet shadows of real blood. But it was real.
Death comes in quietly. The catalyst may at times create a ruckus, but the moment the soul leaves it slips out quietly. Always with a sigh. An exhale.The period at the end of the sentence.
Days like today it was a spreading mirror of flat cherry, like Pop’s ‘65 Shelby. It threw a distorted reflection up at the sky. But this one was different still, because it shouldn’t still be spreading. Instead of a single rivulet along her thigh racing away from the blade, it was a lake. And she had seen enough death in the eyes of enough once living things – the roosters they killed for Sunday supper, or the hog they hung up in the fall – if she dared look into the reflection those would be the eyes she saw.
The period at the end of her sentence. A typo in an uncommon shade of red.