Red Touch

She was a pretty girl, a small heart shaped face with layered medium brown hair. Wide light blue eyes sparkled even in this bloodshed. Her pretty little lips were smiling even as blood gushed between her cigarette stained teeth.

Lying on the ground, in the pale orange dust and dirt, her right arm hanging off a tree she gave me a wicked look, grinning without a care in the world while her eyes filled up with tears, mad I thought.

I knelt down beside her, without emotion, giving her cursory glance over her skinny, armoured form. A machine gun rested at her side, like babe in it's mother's hold. She didn't look maternal, even if she had the hips for it.

Spitting out saliva and blood, mucus trailing out of her nose, down to her chin. Her right ear was missing, bleeding heavily, it matted her brown hair, into a chunky, rust brown mass.

Her remaining arm, rose from her side, shaking and wavering in it's path. It strokes my cheek with her three fingers. I feel the warm gushing liquid of her scarlet blood spew from her finger and into my curly beard, slowly I shut my eyes. The scrape of her fingernails, soft and without strength.

Choking of her own blood now, she dies painfully but with smile on her pretty face. Eye lids close, and her face begins to relax into something more peaceful. It doesn't really suit her.

I stand up and take a photo of her limp form, the red blood staining the earth. I wear her touch with pride.

Turning, I leave her body behind.