The sky is blue when you stab her. It’s a smooth light blue, perfect, the same cloudless blue that the sky was when you used to beg your mom to let you skip chores and go outside. It looks like the sky when the two of you dragged each other down streets and into forbidden back yards and through creeks and it reminds you of the blue forget-me-nots that she made you bring home to tuck behind your mother’s ear. Your mom used to tell you they were beautiful. Then she’d turn to the two of you and give you each one flower. She said they matched your blue eyes better. Eyes just like your father’s.
Looking down at her smiling face, still smiling even though her blood is running down your arm, you want to blame your father. You want to blame his blue eyes that always looked down on you and his strong arm that lead people in all the wrong directions. You want to blame the way his words were always warm, warm like the days with blue skies and warm like blood. Blood. So much blood. But you can’t. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. All there is is a blue sky, blue eyes pouring out crystal tears, a red stain, and a smile. The world is suddenly turning red, red, red, red.
And she won’t stop smiling.