Blood Will Tell

* * *

Why are we scared to die? Do any of us remember being scared when we were born?

* * *

“No,” I breath.

My voice cracks on the first word to have passed my lips for weeks on end.

“Yes,” he replies, teeth bared.

No. No, no, no - Poppy - I told you to run.

He’s so full of red. It’s burning in his eyes, and his face, and his lips, and his tongue. And it’s sweating through the air and into my mouth, I can see it in the air and it’s gushing–

Poppy, why didn't you run?

"I said I'd be seeing you," he whispers.

Foul panic rises in my gut.

Why didn't you run?

"Didn't you believe me?" he asks, tracing the scar across my cheek.

Sobs erupt in my chest.

"No?" he asks, breaking the skin again.

The pulse beating in my throat threatens to engulf my thoughts.

“You're so full of blood," he whispers, gleeful.

I'm not. I got rid of my red. I got rid of it.

Why didn't you run?

He laughs once.

"Well, goodbye Poppy."

Goodbye me.

There is a snap, and my neck breaks.

I'm scared.

It's all right Poppy... Everything's going to be ok.

There's red everywhere.

Red.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Red.

And it won't go away.

Help me.

Everything's going to be fine.

I can't breath.

Just fine.

And it's choking.

Everything...

I'm drowning in red.

...is going to be fine.

Help.