So this was another totally random thing I decided to write because eh, why not? Uh, trigger warning I guess? You know, suicide and all that. This is my own HD so don't get all triggered. Set around like the 16th century? Maybe? Anyways, enjoy my tribute to the best transexual out there. You go girl.

Cool moonlight spread across the room, illuminating the bland whites and cremes. It was supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be exhilarating. After all, marriage was every lady's dream. All the girls talked about was their wedding day, their grooms, and their children. And yet, this was in no way what she wanted.

It was all arranged, not that it was unusual. And she probably wouldn't care so much if it weren't for a slight issue. Marrying another woman was absolutely mental in her mind. Of course, her condition made her a bit mental herself. She knew this was only right, this was tradition. If she told anyone how she really felt, they'd send her away, tell her she was mad, which she'd believe.

So there she stood, in the wrong clothes and in the wrong body, contemplating her choice. She wanted a gown, preferably red, to flow over her. To made her look elegant and perfect as she had always dreamed. But what she got was an odd suit that fit her in all the wrong ways.

She knew she was wrong in all the right ways. She understood the feeling of disgust she felt when someone told her she looked "handsome" and "charming", for that's not what she was. At least, not on the inside. Oh, how she envied other women, wanted to scream at them when they hid their beauty and pushed down their curves, for she'd do anything to have what they have.

She didn't even know the woman she was marrying, which still wasn't unusual. But it was all just so wrong. She knew there was only one way out.

She also knew that she probably sounded so bratty and put-upon. After all, she was wealthy, high class, and well educated. And yet, the only thing she wanted was the thing she couldn't have. And for the amount of times her desire had been brushed off as "a phase" or "just a rebellion", she really did believe that any hell she was sent to was better than here.

She could do it painlessly, use the sleeping herbs her mother had always warned her to never take too much of, for it would kill her. Yet, where's the fun in that? If she was going out, she wanted to go out with a bang. She'd paint herself red like the gown she so desired.

And so, with a smile on her face, content with her choice, she pulled the blade from her dresser. It was small, supposed to be used for stopping intruders, but it would surely do. She watched her reflection in the full-body mirror. Her horribly short, bright red hair spewed out in all directions. Her dark suit making her pale skin glow in the moonlight. Her blue eyes shining with tears as she smiled.

She held out her wrist. In one swift motion, she sliced into the already scarred porcelain skin. It was only a sting compared to the happiness she felt as she watched her blood pour from the cut. So, maybe she was mental, it's not like it mattered anymore. She sliced again, feeling a tear roll down her face. There was nothing here for her, she reminded herself as the blade sliced through her arm again. She watched the dark liquid flow from her broken skin. They'd find her, her mother would cry asking what she did wrong, when the answer was so obviously before her. Her dad would grow angry and her siblings would grieve. And they'd never know. So, through her new dizziness, she picked up the paper she had placed near her, rereading her words.

"It's not your fault, it's God's. After all, how could you have guessed I would be born in the wrong body?"

She chuckled as her vision blurred, not scared in the slightest. She embraced what was to come. She let the blood drip own her arm and across her white shirt and black vest, feeling her consciousness waver. This was it. She didn't know what existed beyond this point, but it would be better than what was waiting for her here. She set her note back down, closing her eyes as her her knees buckled. Everything was turning white and she was numb to the pain. In fact, she was happy. And as more blood flowed and tears streamed, she fell to the ground, almost surprised at how quickly it had worked. Or maybe she'd been standing there for hours. Really, she didn't know. It was all just such a blur.

So, she smiled for the last time.

Flowers danced in the breeze, a field of white roses stretching in front of her. She felt weightless. The sun was shining across the world, and the sound of birds singing filled her ears. So this was heaven? And through her hazy vision, a figure approached. She could make out the image of a person in a dark robe, holding what looked like a scythe.

"Hello there, Milady," said a light, masculine voice, as if greeting a child. She did a double take. No one had ever called her a lady before. Her vision cleared, and she looked up to find a silver-haired being with piercing green eyes and a wide smile.

"Welcome, Grell Sutcliff."

Weewoo, this was kinda shitty but whatever. This is my idea of what it feels like to end your life in this set of circumstances so ONCE AGAIN DON'T GET MAD AT ME. (also ik Grell's eyes are green but that's because she's a reaper so I thought to myself "hey, let's give her blue eyes")

No Grell Sutcliff in a dress here (the lady deserves one), STAY WONDERFUL MY POTATOES! (potatoes?)

review? for me?