Title: Apathy In Motion
A/N: I say that the character is Death, but then again, I'm not entirely sure.
Her red stilletto heels click on the marble floor, cold, cold, like her heart. She stares meaningfully straight ahead, as if anyone could ever look her in the eyes anymore, will ever look her in the eyes. They are as cold as her heart and the floor, sparkling in their unmeant generosity, in their debilitating truth. She matches all over, black clothes, black hair, black eyes, except her heels, wrapping up her ankles, red, so red, like wine spilled across white tablecloths. Only it isn't really wine, she doesn't like wine. Click, click, click, in time with the melting clock, with the black watch on her pale wrist, tick, tick, tick, counting away the seconds of the lives all around her. She is eternal, and the eternity is getting to her, has gotten to her, and she doesn't even remember her own name, only what she must do, what she must always do.
She sets the black briefcase down with another clack on the cold floor, flicks it open, and inside is red, red for wine, red for blood, red for murder.
When she leaves, her red heels clicking briskly against grey pavement, there is no one alive left in the tall black tower.