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O the bleeding drops of red

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The sky was blue.
The sky was blue, the earth was brown, and Lavina-
Lavinia was red.
The only color she could see for miles was shades of red. The color of passion, they say, the color of virginity and devotion.
The color of anger and heartbreak and regret.
She was numb inside, but for this overwhelming color. All she could see was the red pouring from where her hands should be, the red pouring from her mouth where her tongue had always been. Her black dress of mourning with stark red sleeves, highlighting the horror that had been done to her. All she had been before erased in one afternoon, now, now she was only maimed Lavinia, burden to poor mad Titus. Broken Lavinia, soiled Lavinia, fractured, fragmented, mangled Lavinia. Her world was nothing but pity.
Even Young Lucius, who had tried to fix her, tried to give her hands back, had run scared when she needed him most.
There was nothing. The world had opened to an empty chasm, and she was as empty as it.
She held the bowl, and waited.

The sky was blue, the earth brown, and everything,
everything else
was red.