red hair-ing

“If I keep painting, I won’t die.”
“If I keep painting, I won’t die.”
“If I keep painting, I won’t die.”

She tore the bag open, setting the ornament inside free with a soft jangle. Beneath the rim a long red hair clung distractingly and she wordlessly removed it, blowing it out the car door and away from her. It seemed heavily empty around her in the atmosphere but she couldn’t define it, so stored it away for a detail to be surmised over later.

A very brief message had alerted her to the transition she could not cease, but hadn’t really wrapped her mind around just then.
“Gone?” a voice said. Confirmed. Gone. replied an electronic blurt in her skull.
“I must be going crazy for real.” She told herself. All the disembodied voices could mean nothing else.

When things began to disintegrate, and deteriorate at an astonishing rate, searching for the solution, any cure, any chemical, it was only well into the throes of surviving the end that the truth came around her way again.

The ornament had been left as salvation, a solution, the dna they’d need to heal the destruction wrought was located in that single hair she had blown away, guiltless, not knowing the ends she had secured for humanity.

As the ash perforated her lungs, she held the bodies of two children, atop a mountain of others, dead before she could exclaim that there was no hope and no end to their misery.
Suffering could have been prevented, but this time, it would crumble quietly, life would find its away again from beneath the rubble.

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