Red.

The color of roses.

The color of blood.

Black. Never again shall I see it as the embodiment of death. Death is hollow. Black encompasses all. Except for me.

The rose is dropped from icy hands, two roses falling together in the night.

Red is hollow. The color of blood, of life leaving the body. It leaves one empty inside with nothing to hide behind.

I regret that it happened. I regret that I caused it. I regret that eyes looked on from all around as death was made present in their world. Big eyes and small, human and inhuman.

The roses split apart, one losing its color while the other drifts away on the wind. One turns a pale hue while the other abandons the scene to live another day.

Steel. The bringer of death. Its cold sting paints the rose in red. A sting brought about by man, its icy touch accentuated by the warmth of the red blood as it spills from the cuts and slashes.

I regret ever having been born to wake up that day and cause one rose to wither in the wind while its recipient withered on the red-stained ground.

And now she is gone to be with Him.

And now I will go to be with her.

I regret having done what I did to her. I regret having said what I said to her. I regret that she stayed despite my many failures. I regret having met her. I even regret having been born, if it meant that this would happen.

And yet, even as the rose finishes withering, soaking in its own lifeblood, even as the glint of steel flashes one last time, and the blood of the knife's owner flies through the air...

Despite all of the things I regret, I don't regret loving her.

I could never regret that.