The Endlessness of Everything

The police lights strobe across the white moorland in manga licks of blue softened and soaked by rolling drifts of dawn's breaking mists. The distant wintered trees hang as ghouls in the flanks, silhouettes seamed with indigo against a fading brittle grey sky.

I stand next to Kate's body. Her gravestone. Her murderer by neglect. I watch the neon yellow coats approach, their searchlights bleeding trails. How am I going to explain her death to these logical creatures? I look down; her golden skin, covered in frosted lace, appears lilac in the undulation of blue. Her shock of turquoise hair shimmers with ice. She lies as art within nature's canvas. Beautiful in her death.

My heart races with guilt. My breath judders in shallow puffs, freezing in beads against my ghostly skin. She had stared so long at that easel. I had assumed she could not paint; weeks had passed without a stroke of colour passing from her brushes onto canvas. I had tried to encourage her, not understanding when she said, "It's ok; I am simply enjoying the endlessness of everything. There is joy in a blank slate; its infinite potential is intoxicating. I am obsessed with it. I could stay here connected to the possibilities of new beginnings forever."

I look at her embalmed in nature's winter canvas, splashed in synthetic blue, and I know how she died.

She walked into the nothingness to become one with it.

It will take the appreciation of an artist to understand.