It was the slight click of the barrel

and the hand gripping the handle;

and she was still standing,

hand in hand with an umbrella,

standing in front of the exit of her labyrinth.

Her silent cries splashed and turmoiled 

in terror, in resentment, in indignance,

the wave consuming all,

raging like a crashing bomb 

until it exploded in the ultimate cacophony.

And each drop of pain fell in echoing dissonance.

She was standing,

perhaps just her silverness of soul and mind,

Standing,

perhaps just her forlorn memories,

the umbrella splattered on the ground,

splattered in the colors of wistfulness and pain,

in red.