Author's Note: Here is the result of a little, tragic idea that popped into my head one gloomy afternoon. Hope you enjoy. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.
Of all the deaths Kakashi had seen in his lifetime, all of them had been red. Since they'd all been red, he felt it safe to infer that all deaths must be red.
Yet as he was holding his teammate Rin's dying body in his arms to stop her from shaking and convulsing from severe blood loss, he realized that his inference had not been correct; her death was purple.
It was the colour of the sky as the setting sun backed down, letting twilight take over.
It was the colour of her rectangular face paint strips that were now smudged from being held against his shirt too tightly and for too long.
It was the colour of the various bruises and contusions on her body – the result of taking on a mission that was much too difficult for her.
It was the colour of her lips as she shivered in the cold October air –more from blood loss than the actual outdoor temperature.
It was the colour her veins turned as they rapidly lost blood.
It was the colour her navy dress turned as the crimson vital fluid soaked through and stained the dress, making it a dark indigo.
It was the colour her hands had become from the cold – they wouldn't turn back to their normal colour no matter how much he held them in his own warm ones and no matter how much hot air he breathed or how many salty tears he let fall on them.
It was the colour of her breath as it appeared mistily and translucently in the chilly, twilight air of October, telling him to not feel guilty because he had held up his part of the promise and to go on living fully and happily – her dying wish.
It was the colour his tears would turn as they fell on her face, her dress, and her skin.
It was the colour of her eyes as they stared up at him, somehow still glistening happily and warmly, silently pleading with him not to get upset and not to cry – still glistening in reassurance that everything would be alright, there'd still be life after her death.
It was the colour of her dilated orbs reflecting in his dark ones –his onyx ones shining dully back in fear, desperation, and disbelief.
It was the colour of the now twilight sky – a dark indigo – as the stars began to shine and twinkle in the dark blanket.
It was the colour of the flowers from the meadow she'd spent her last living moments in.
It was the colour of her eyelids as they slowly closed, as sleep took her from the world forever –and the colour of her final breath, escaping from her cold lavender lips only moments after she'd reached up with her pale purple hand to lay it gently on his cheek and mutter tiredly (yet kindly) her dying wish for him.
It was the dark and ferocious colour of the scream he let out when she died, still holding her against him, vowing bitterly and furiously to get revenge on whoever had done this to her.
It was the only colour running through his mind seconds later, desperately grasping at any memory, anything that even vaguely reminded him of her.
It was the terrible colour of violent fury that gripped his heart and the colour of the fearfully epiphanous conclusion he reached – an epiphany was frightening because he didn't know how he was managing to think straight.
Nevertheless, it wasn't right, he surmised. This couldn't, wouldn't, and shouldn't be death. Death wasn't supposed to work this way, it wasn't supposed to be that colour.
Death wasn't supposed to be her colour.
Author's Note: Alright, well there it is! Hope you all enjoyed it!