Disclaimer: She isn't mine. She's marvel's, and so is her mentioned husband. Please don't sue.

Pale skin, pale hair, and washed out eyes stared back at her as she looked into the mirror. Her lips were the only feature on her face that was not pale, and these were stained with a dark red liquid that tasted like salt and smelled like copper. She lifted a hand, shaking and thin, to her face and touched her lips, letting the red that stained them cover her fingers.

She pulled her hand back and looked at the digits, staring at them with wide blue eyes. She looked up again into the flat silver mirror, staring at the washed out flesh of her face, and the too redness of her lips. The red coated them like cheap lipstick, the kind that was impossible to wipe off, no matter how hard you tried.

The girl sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knobby knees, and pulling them up to her chest. She leaned her head forward, letting the bleached locks on her head fall around her pale legs. She pressed her bloody lips to her knees, leaving the mark of her lips on the stretched skin that covered her kneecap. It was a bizarre parody of the kiss lips you found on Valentine cards, and the girl laughed on the inside.

Until a racking pain, like some one stabbing her over and over again with a hot iron poker, invaded her chest. Her balance left her, vertigo and pain mixing together in a swirling dance of disgusting colors and lights, that left her dizzy and weak. A sour taste invaded her mouth, and the contents of her stomach were suddenly on the floor.

The disgusting greens and yellows of her stomach's acid and the dark crimson-brown of blood swirled together in a twisted kind of modern art. She heaved once again, allowing the more of the mixed liquid to join the painting on the floor.

She screwed up her eyes tightly, not letting her eyes see what her weakness had wrought. Turning away, she crawled across the floor, the carpet harsh against her shaking knees. She made it perhaps halfway, to where the late afternoon sunlight from the window fell in a square box on the floor. There she collapsed lying down gratefully on the rough carpet and pulling into a small ball of misery and agony.

Another fit of coughing shook her body, and warm liquid filled her mouth. She spat it out, cringing to notice that it was the same dark red as the blood that stained her lips. Closing her eyes to the sight, she laid in the sunlight, trying to warm herself from the chill that assaulted her from the inside out.

But to no avail. Still she trembled, the chills shaking her like a rag dog. Her fingers tightened involuntary, pulling at the long strands of brown yarn that made up the carpet of her room. More quaking over took her, and she pulled on the carpet harder, ripping out a handful. The yarn hung from her hand like a fistful of dead worms, limp and brown.

More shaking stiffened her body, and she lay, agonized and unable to move, to speak, even to breath. The pain worsened still, until it felt like the fire of hell was burning her. Her hand fell limply to the ground, her fingers straightening out, and letting the worm yarn fall out of her clenched fist. A drop of blood rolled from her nose down her face, falling like a tear across her cheek, leaving a trek of blood across the paleness of her face.

The blood fell to the ground and stained the carpet a dull brown red, something tears would not do. Her eyes opened, and she stared vacantly at the ceiling, following the pattern with her eyes. Bumps were raised in the boards, and she counted them. 467 little ridges and bumps of pale white plaster in the ceiling.

Once more, shaking overtook her and she began to spasm uncontrollably. She twisted her spin upward, until her back was twisted into a near perfect arc. If she screamed, she didn't hear the sound. Suddenly, the pain stopped, and her body was slammed back against the floor, and pain shot from the spot where her spin hit.

Coughing violently, blood shot out of her mouth, like a fountain spews water, to splatter on her face. Some of it rolled into her eyes, but she lacked the strength to reach up and brush it away. So it stained, burning her eyes.

Tears mixed with the blood in her eyes, and slipped down her cheeks, the water diluting the blood into a pale pink. The bloody tears fell on the torn collar of the old blue and black flannel shirt. Blood stained it in places; old blood, to old to have come from the girl that currently wore it.

The girl rubbed the old fabric between her fingers; it was the only movement that she could accomplish at that moment. Closing her eyes, she tried to let herself be swept into the sweetness of the memories that the touch of the fabric stirred in her.

Memories of a pair of baby blue eyes lit by some inner fire. The brush of golden hair against her cheek, the pungent scent of aftershave and pine trees. The trembling of soft flesh, and warm breath in her face assaulted her.

And then her body racked upward in agony, as she fought for control of the pain that laced through her once more. This time was the hardest and longest bought of pain that had happened; her throat was too raw and bleeding to even allow her the pleasure of screaming. And once more, her mouth and lungs were filled with liquid, thicker then water. Trying to spit, her back arced, this time farther then it had the first times.

She felt, rather then heard the wet snap of her backbone breaking. She collapsed on the ground, boneless. There was suddenly no more pain, something she hadn't had in a long, long time. The sweet pleasure of an existence without pain overrode the fact that she her death was just around the corner.

And the release of death did come to her. It descended like an arrow shot downward, plunging deep into her heart, and stopping the faltering beat. Blood stopped filling the crevices and the holes that the diseases had filled her body with, and the hot iron disappeared from her chest. Her stomach stopped rolling, and she felt an eerie peace slip over her.

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, silently saying goodbye to the 467 ridges in the ceiling. A slow smile spread across her features, as she slipped into the waiting arms of her husband on the other side.

With no other ceremony then that, Tabitha Smith-Guthrie took her leave of the world.