The sky is red. She noticed such insignificant things: the wind, silent until you listened for it; a red winged blackbird singing in the crown of a tree oblivious, to her. Her mind shied away from the horror in front of her like earthworms squirming from a light. But she couldn't ignore it, she wouldn't, couldn't do that to him.
The great russet wolf lay broken before her, barely breathing. Blood trickled from deep gashes, seeping into the silky fur, spreading stains of rust. Crimson ran between his teeth, ran in rivulets over his muzzle. Her hands were stained with it, but she had given up caring, given up trying to stop his life from bleeding into the dirt. Now she only sat with her eyes wide but barely seeing, motionless but for her hand stroking his fur, moving as if on it's own. His eyes were still open, their amber unblemished, and it hurt her for him to look at her, hurt her that he still could when she could barely stand to see him. Slowly his lips moved, sliding over the red teeth as his eyes continued to look into her own. He bared his teeth in that wolfish grin, and she could feel something in her die. So slowly, his eyes closed, never looking away from her face.
The sky is red.