She dreams.
But she's dead, isn't she?
Dreams in colour, in bright and hazy kaleidoscopes, splashes of rainbow spectrums, and, of course, red. Dreams of her mother, soft and benign.
Dead among the flowers.
There's no pain in her dreams, just what she once cherished. One eye is blue, one is is gold...she can't decide which she'd rather kill.
Melting into the earth, no doubt.
Her father, uncharacteristically worried. She isn't sure why, until that voice comes back, adhering to its particular schedule, telling her she's dead. Why yes, she knows she is. Certainly. Until she wakes up, and gone are her colours.
You are dead. You are buried and gone and dead. You have died. You're dead..?
But the pain in her lifts its lazy head, and it says no.