"People are fragile. They die of mistakes, of overdoses, of sickness. But mostly they die of Death." ~Holly Black
There are a lot of things to consider when lying in a pool of one's own blood: perhaps how such an event came to take place, and if the previously mentioned spilling of blood was accidental or intentional.
If the answer was intentional, the next question should most certainly be whether or not one was going to survive the circumstance. Unfortunately, with murder, that answer was almost always 'No'.
Upon realizing this, there are many reactions one could go through, including, but not limited to: pusillanimous wailing and shrieking, attempting to outrun Death's tenacious grip, or begrudging acceptance—using the last few moments of life to reminisce on the past regrets.
But never ever, in a million years, under any circumstance, should one use their last breath to think about shoes.
Or anything bearing a semblance to fashion. But no one had sat Silvia Praxton down and told her the proper protocol for being murdered: that her thoughts should be more reflective and less appearance based.
So due to her ignorance of this crucial rule, Silvia Praxton thought about shoes. More specifically, the shoes she would wear to her funeral.
She hoped the coroner would be sensible enough to at least choose a pair of Jimmy Choos or Louboutins.
She always swore she wouldn't be caught dead in anything other than Louis Vuitton's, but she decided to make an exception, just this once.
'The color isn't as important as the style,' she concluded.
It would have to be a luxury style: an elegant, steep heel followed by a sleek body that would accentuate her fine legs. She needed to look her best; after all, her funeral would be the event of the season, where her many lovers would throw themselves at her coffin in anguish, swiping streams of tears off their faces.
Maybe, if she was lucky, one would even collapse from the trauma of her death. Such thoughts consoled her.
Her breath was now coming in haggard pauses; her lungs struggled to expand, the trembling in her extremities had intensified, causing her whole body to writhe in an undignified manner.
Silvia's vision started to wane as she gazed up at the heavens. The stars twinkled down on her, teasing her with their luster.
Those sparkles reminded her: she would need shoes with all the glitz and glamour of the stars themselves to make every woman jealous of her corpse.
She continued to stare at the constellations, zigzagging through the sky in patterns only astronomers could recognize. They were so far away, but as her heart started to beat slower, the stars seemed to move closer.
Soon, they called with a gleam. Soon, you'll be with us.
A star in the throes of death.
Her head lulled to the side, tearing her vision away from the beautiful lights above and instead, forced her to focus on the foreboding darkness.
The earth had soaked up her blood, but as her life force wept from her body, it slicked the ground, mixing with the dirt to create a mush of thick clay, caking her body in a suit of armor.
Dampness rose up to flood her nostrils and crawl down her throat to slowly choke her.
Silvia wished she would die faster; then she wouldn't have to deal with the horrid thought that someone would find her body in such a disarray.
Her last wish was granted as her consciousness faded, one last breath and one last thought flitting across her mind — perhaps she shouldn't have killed her husband after all.
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Eridanus FloodingMystery / Thriller
Commander Jack Rhodes is a retired Navy Seal. Well. Retired isn't what he would call it. More like fired. Yes. Fired would be the correct choice of word. No one retires at the age of 32. When a mission went wrong, leaving Jack as the only survivor...