The room was cold; it's bare walls doing nothing to keep what little warmth it had inside. Her tiny feet brushed against the ice-cold floor, her legs dangling slightly off the edge of the chair and felt the bite of the chill. 'It doesn't matter anyway,' she thought, 'not anymore at least.'

Her nightgown was thin, paper-like, and it floated around her almost like an angel's dress. Tiny daisies were embroidered along the sides of the sleeves and hem, They were light pink, and the only colour on the pristine white gown.

She thought about him, and his funny way of smiling; the way one side of his lips curled up more than the other; the way the dimple appeared on both sides of his cheeks anyway. She remembered him running, so strong, so healthy; he looked like he would live forever with his cheeks so red and rosy, almost like a Greek god. And so many times too, when he had fought for her, to save and rescue her, he had lived despite having all the odds against him. She remembered him. She remembered him, pale and stiff, lying in the pine box being lowered into the freshly turned ground.

She lifted her waif-like hands and fingered the razor on the table, placing a white porcelain bowl under her wrist to make sure that when it was over, she wouldn't leave a mess.

The razor was cool and reassuring against her pale skin. When it cut her flesh, she watched in fascination as the wound slowly changed colour, from white to pink to crimson. The metallic smell entered her nose, and she decided that she quite liked it. The blood beaded along the cut and gathered together to form great pregnant drops down the length of the bracelets of fortune where they rolled off her arm, leaving streaks of scarlet against the whiteness of her skin. White on red. Red on White.

"Plink," as they went into the bowl, slowly at first, then faster until it was almost streaming into the awaiting crucible, forming a cherry-coloured pool.

"Wait for me, my love."

They found her the next day, leaning back against the chair, a bowlful of blood in one hand, the other slit open to the tendons, dead as dead could be.

She was smiling slightly, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly open, as if speaking. And on her nightdress, despite her best efforts, a tiny red blossom of blood just over her left breast.

The room was cold; but Sakoshita Yanagi would not feel it.


AN: Review please.