Crimson She paints a pretty picture, but the story has a twist. The paintbrush was a razor and the canvas was her wrist. As the crimson starts to flow, a steady stream of red. Her white sheets turn dark, as she lay there on her bed. She closes her eyes, her cold dark memories fade. The vicious world she has become accustom to, slowly slips away. When she re-opens her eyes, she is standing next to God. " My child you are finally home." he whispers. Suddenly she is falling into black nothingness. She closes her eyes tight waiting for the end. It never comes. Her eyes flutter open, realizing it was a dream. Sweat and blood cover her body. Yet again the sweet pain of the razor caressed her wrists, bringing her one step closer to the heaven outside of the hell she calls home