It danced about in clear liquid. It flowed like silk in a soft summer's breeze. It swirled about with a grace befitting its origins.

Slowly it melted away, gradually melting into the translucent warmth that encompassed all.

Slowly it drifted about, winding itself about its roots.

Color diffused bit by bit. From red to pink to a sickeningly sweet orange.

Stark white stood out among nonexistent waves of red.

It poured from valleys carved in anguish, loosened in the warmth of gin and the bath.

It still moved with a liveliness that would very quickly fade.

Silver blades on a red handle. Fingers still firmly clasping.

A fistful of ashen locks, soon to be rogue. Just as hers.

Solemn fingers went slack. Not relaxing, but letting go. Pushing off from reality.

Tips dyed red, whites bared in grimm satisfaction, she bid farewell.

Who would inhabit this bleak world alone?