What's the colour of death?

For me, it's red. That's what it's always been for me.

The erubescent maple leaves falling from their dark, bare branches.

The deep scarlet of the sky as the sun sets under the horizon and daylight breathes its last.

The cat's cradle stretched across my fingers.

The bright crimson of the spider lilies gently swaying in the chilly breeze.

The blazing flames devouring the village like a beast, spitting smoke and choking my lungs.

The colour of blood against pale, dead skin.

The streaks of blood on my brother's face as he wailed over our parents' bodies.

The not-quite-dry dark stains on the hands of the men that grabbed us and took us away.

And...the crescent-shaped mark on my face.