Laying there, a woman, by the name of Sorrow, the colour red is filling her vision, a flower of the same red blooming horribly on her stomach, its stalk standing vertically, shimmering proudly silver in the dying light. This flower is digging its thorns deep, making her insides burn.
Her thoughts ran, trying to stumble at the same pace her slowing brain was running, filling her head with worrying thoughts. Dying, Alex, dying, knife, dying, dying, Alex, bastard, dying...
* * *
The thoughts of a dying woman probably won't interest you. Her thirteen year old son might not be of much interest either, or the events that led up to where she laid at the End. The fact that she was a demon might interest you. No? The question of why she was laying there, dying? Perhaps the fact that she married a gun?
. . .
The fact you're still here means that there is an eighty percent chance that one or more of the above have caught your attention. I am sorry to say that for me to explain one of them, I shall explain all of them.
I don't have to. But I shall anyway.