The Colors of Death

I am bleeding. I look down and all I can see is red. 70%. 60%. 50%. My body now is 40% liquid. The crows are squawking above my head waiting for my dead body to crash to the ground. This is change.

Dying in dreams signals a new beginning.

The bullet went straight through my heart before I could make out the perpetrator in the darkness. As I hovered above my dying cells, nothing made sense leading up to this moment except that time when my dad found my 3-year-old body floating face down in the backyard pond. For a moment I could feel that chilly wetness and smell the algae heated by the rays of the sun.

The bottom of the pond was green and the fish that floated by were orange. Green. Orange. Red. I am reminded of the time I fell off my parent's roof. My skinned shins and purple bump on my head swelling to the size of an egg. My brother's clear tears splashing onto my damaged face. I got up never knowing how broken I was. I was bent from the wreckage and all because I was too frightened to take the ultimate plunge.

Alone in the darkness tears well up in my eyes. I am scared, again. I am afraid to move ahead. My dreamworld tenderly holds my hand and kisses my wet cold cheeks coaxing me away from the wreckage and into the white light. It is so bright that I forget who I am.