Paint It Black

I picture her tiny body as I found her that day lifeless and still as a statue in her cot. Her expression peaceful but I could sense something was wrong immediately. The vibrant colours in the little bedroom at odds with the sheer fucking brutality of nature.

The day after the funeral with a grim determination I picked up my brush and painted the bright red door to her room. With the feverish dementia of the truly heartbroken I applied myself to the task. The paint smelled like ashes to my dead senses as cold tears streamed down my face.