Crimson

He watches her. He feels her heartbeat race from across the room and when she stares into the smooth reflective surface of the mirror, he is almost sure he catches her eye. But she just ducks her head and continues to smile and nod at the mindless chatter of the upper class folk. He smiles, his pale lips stretching over sharp white teeth, ideal for tearing into soft rosy flesh. Her golden hair falls into her eyes and her pale slender fingers brush them out of her face. There is a flash of gold, a spark of light and then it’s gone- the dark blue of her gown covering the golden brilliance of the bracelet.
He bites into his lip and tastes the copper tang of his blood fill his mouth, scalding his tongue and dyeing his teeth a pale pink. The anger spits and hisses inside him, calling and rearing for blood besides his own to spill. It called for vengeance to be exacted and revenge stolen once more. The taunting voices start up again in the back of his mind, they shouted and cursed from every recess and corner of his soul. He hears his heart pounding, and watches every shaky breath she takes. He watches her fingers tremble as she pours a glass of crystalline wine into a diamond glass. The light reflected off the extravagant chandeliers glows red. “Fitting.” The man muses as he pulls at the tight jacket constricting his chest, the cheap itchy material scratchy on his skin. Fitting that the color of extravagance and wealth would also represent blood and with it, death. Those were the very things that led men to murder after all. The man pulls the hat lower to hide his face- once seen it was not a thing easily forgotten. He sees his family crest, a locket, an heirloom hang from her pale thin neck. How easy to snap and crush beneath the soles of his dark leather boots and listen to her choke. The man’s dirty fingers twitch toward his pocket, but no- not just yet. Justice will be served, good things come to those who wait, his father had said. He’s waited eight years for this after all; what more is a single moment?
The girl blushes, her pale skin flushing a pretty red as her blood rushes under her skin. Her pink lips quiver into a smile and he can almost remember the exact moment he doomed himself and his family. He remembers the end. He remembers his ruin. The sky was bright that day though rain fall from the sky as he opened the door. The raps had been soft and gentle, a woman’s knock. The girl smiled; her wet gold hair a halo over her angelic face. She bewitched him. She dug and clawed her way into his heart from the moment she smiled. From the way she brushed her golden hair in beautiful braids over her shoulder. She was an angel, fallen to earth with the rain. He had opened his mouth to say something, anything really, but what does one say in the presence of such beauty? Her baby blue eyes twinkled with what he thought was love; for he was so sure he shone with the same light. He is convinced now that they shone with malice and murder, anything to place the blame on another. She held a single slender finger to her lips and he fell silent. He should have screamed for help, he knew. “Thief!” He should have shouted. “Gypsy! Witch! Monster! Demon!” But he didn’t. Instead he stepped back and invited her in. He closed the door after her, softly, so as not to wake his sleeping parents. She never spoke, not at first and certainly not in the nightmares he’s had to this very day. The man’s convinced himself that she had no tongue. That words that he should have seen through, truly understood instead of accepting, were ever uttered. She jumped on beds and ate the porridge his mother had made. He liked to think he tried to stop her; but he didn’t. “Too hot.” She had claimed when she dipped a finger into his father’s bowl and licked it off. She grabbed his mother’s bowl, and he makes to stop her. His mother was with child for god’s sake! She needed her strength! But Goldie, as he had taken to calling her simply glares at him and holds a single finger, red and scalded to her bright lips. Silent, her eyes commanded. So he was. “Too cold.” She begins to devour his, her lips twisting and distorting as she swallows the porridge. When she is finished, she leans back and sighs, content. “Just right.”
It continued. Goldie even broke the chair Papa had carved for him. He could feel the tears begin to prick at the back of his eyes. He held the broken pieces of wood in his hand, the splinters digging into his palm and fingers. He hears a cackle from behind him and Goldie bounds off to break more of his things, no doubt, the bitterness rising in his throat. There was suddenly a crash in the silence, a howl- no, a scream, screams. He takes off running, his feet fast and painful on the wooden floor. There are more howls, more animal than human. He promised his parents he would care for his new baby brother. He’s doomed them all. His breath comes in hitches in his raspy throat.
It’s very anticlimactic really, the silence after the howls, the crimson blood after the searing white of a wound. Goldie stands, her hair a burning halo of fire as the blood drips off the letter opener made from a bear’s claw. It drips into the white crisp sheets of his parents’ bed. The colors attack his eyes where they say crimson instead of bleached white. Funny, how one’s mind can fool one’s eyes so easily; ironic, how one’s brain could turn on you so quickly. His parents lay in bed, his mother’s face frozen in a mask of horror and pain. His father’s chest is faltering slightly; fluttering, like gentle little sparrows. Their heartbeats are fast and quick, all too easy to stop. He clambers to his father’s side, his hands desperately clutching his father’s hand, wide and strong like the paw of a bear, and all too bloody. His father flings his son’s hands away to clutch at the painful red of his slit throat. The boy stares at his own hands; stained red. Simple blurred streaks of color on soft skin, all too easy to overlook if one chose to. He sobs, apologizing, always apologizing; they fall on dead ears. There’s a searing pain that pierces his brain and his eyes roll into the back of his head. He saw only darkness, an asylum that came with the lack of color. He welcomed it.
He felt the burn before the scalding blindness of the color hit him. The red stabbed and pierced his eyes but they impaled his heart so much more. The guilt hurt worse than anything else. The anger seared through him in bright white flashes. He was angry with Goldie, the world, but most of all with himself. The color of the world around him assaulted his eyes as he sits up, the pain on his face tearing him to shreds. Goldie is rocking back and forth on the rocking chair by the window, his mother’s he notes. She is humming softly, her hands arm deep with red. She looked like she wore expensive gloves. “M-murderer!” He rasps, the words finally tearing their way out of his throat, sounding like the howl of a lone wolf. She turns her head, before bringing her crimson dyed finger to her poison red lips. “Shh. It’s asleep.” Goldie turns to kiss the bundle in her arms, her attention turned away. He feels pricks of jealousy that surprise him. He stands up, faltering to his feet. He is inches away from her, his fingers so close to her neck- he could break it easily, this he knew, but did he truly want to? His angel turns, her gold hair dripping red; colors of riches and wealth, insignias of death and murder. She holds the bundle out to him, her lips instruments of fatality. “Congratulations. It’s a girl.” His eyes widen and he can’t see- He can’t see! He sees blotches of bright red bundled in pale white; turning, he sees the red of the bed. His mother’s belly, scratched and abused, torn right open. Red.
The man scratches at the lines of knotted healed skin along his face, tracing the scars his angel gave him. He watches her and when she smiles and heads up the stairs to the balcony, he follows. He always does. She is standing right at the edge, her toes peeking off the unfinished platform. She gazes down her brown eyes watching- brown? No. She’s turned around now, smiling before it begins to slip from her face. Her expression turns to one of horror as she sees the scars Goldie- she left. “M-murderer!” He snarls; his hands rough and wide like the pads of a bear’s paw as he reaches out to grab her. Her mouth twists in a scream and he lets it go, for he hears nothing in his mind of color. His fingernails dig into her soft flesh drawing blood, red. He stares at them, fixated, before turning to smile at her. His lips stretched wide over sharp teeth. Her face is inches from him and he leans in closer, whispering. “Too hot.” He pushes her away roughly and she clambers at the edge, a second from falling and a step away from red. His hand wraps around her throat, her gasps coming softly now, like howls of innocent, newborn bear cubs. He knew better though, he saw right through her. His hand tightens and her eyes widen. “Too cold.” He dangles her off the edge, watching her blue eyes widen. “Just right.” He snarls, his voice, like howls in the wind and he lets go. There is silence and then a flare of red. The man smiles and when he looks up from his handiwork, he sees a flash of gold and red.
The smile slips from his face.
It’s funny how one’s mind can fool one’s eyes so easily; ironic, how one’s brain could turn on you so quickly.





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JelloAngel92 said...
May 24, 2011 at 2:01 pm
truly original.
 
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