First the bodies.

Then the humans.

That's how I see things.

Or at least, I try.

***HERE IS A SMALL FACT***

You are going to die.

I am, in all truth, attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. That's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

***REACTION TO THE AFFORMENTIONED FACT***

Does this worry you?
I urge you- don't be afraid.
I'm nothing if not fair.

Of course, an introduction.

A beginning.

Where are my manners?

I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You may very well know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. I really base the fact on what type of person you are. Your attitude. Your dress. The way you act. The way you treat yourself and others. Among other things, of course. It suffices me to say that in some point in time, I will be standing over you with a blade in one hand and your soul in the other. Death will come and take it away from me. He will carry you gently away.

At that moment, your body will be lying there, bleeding, lifeless, and I will walk away. You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell of rusty blood, of my footsteps.

The question is, what color will be everything at the moment of your death? What will the sky be saying?

I've been noticing the colors in most everything ever since I died. Ever since five years ago. Maybe more. I've lost count. After slaying, I draw in the color of everything around me. Store it away.

Every person has a story. A color.

What's yours?

Personally, I like a blue colored sky. A dark, evening blue. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see- the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same. You have to get used to the colors in my line of work. Getting used to it takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

***A SMALL THEORY***

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but
to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude
of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour
can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, rosy pinks, cloud-spat
blues. Murky darknesses. I make a point to notice them.

As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. Heh. More so, at least. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. Oh, so five years isn't enough? I'll be performing this job for as long as I live. To the end of eternity. Long time, huh?

The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski-trip variety?

The answer is, nobody.

I've never liked snow anyway. White is my least favorite color, which, I guess, works, because you rarely see the color white when somebody needless and mean is dead. I've never seen it. Fitting.

Still, it's possible you might be asking, why does she even need a vacation? What does she need distraction from?

Which brings me to my next point.

It's the leftover humans.

The survivors.

Like me.

They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasion I still fail. It's hard not to when there are so many of them. I deliberately seek out ways to keep my mind off them, but every now and again, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, anger and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.

And I'm the one who puts them out of their misery.

I'm such a hypocrite, as Destiny would say.

Which, in turn, brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of two of those perpetual survivors- the experts at being left behind.

It's just a small story, really, among other things.

It's about

*A girl
*A young woman
*Some paintings
*A journey
*A search
*And quite a lot of death.

Are you sitting down? Are you ready?

Good. Then let us begin.