AN: So here we are again. Apparently times of high emotional stress are great for getting my muse going. Combine that with my remarkable skills for procrastination and we end up with several ficlets and very little revision. Whoops. Anyway, this is another story for SpyFest 2015. If you haven't already checked it out, go look at the 'Revival of SpyFest' forum where you can vote or enter your own story. Come on, you know you want to.
I would like to add that this idea is stolen from something I saw on Tumblr, a response to the prompt 'describe the colour red with using the word red', so credit for the idea goes to the original author. I hope you enjoy it, and as always, please read and review.
When you see her across the school playground for the first time, it is the colour of her hair. As you share your first Christmas together - and for every glorious one after that - it is the colour of her dress. It is the colour of your cheeks the first time she hugs you, clutching you tight in a way that feels foreign and alien. It is the colour you feel the first time she grounds you and doesn't listen to your explanations. The first time Ian doesn't come home from work because he's in hospital, it's the colour that you shout because no one will tell you why. After you hurt your fist protecting your new friend at school, it's the colour of her voice when she asks what happened. It's what you see after the funeral when you find out about all the lies and from then onwards it is the colour of your thoughts of them as you remember the way they forced you, used you and abused you. When you kill for the first time, it's the colour that they bleed.
It's the colour of her eyes when you wake up in hospital for the first time. After you realise that she is all you have left, it's the colour of the love that you feel.
When you are captured, it's the colour of your pulse. It's the hope that courses through your veins when you find an escape and watch her leave for the last time. It's the fading colour of your heart when you realise it had been a game all along and that you have failed.
It is the colour of the explosion; at its beginning and at its end when the embers turn to ash as the dust settles with a startling finality.
It is the colour of your s-c-r-e-a-m.
At the end of it all, it is not the colour you see at her funeral, or what you feel as your new family welcomes you with open arms.
You doubt you will ever see it in the same way again.
