The Colors of the Rainbow
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Red
He picks a strawberry and cradles it in his palm. It's bright red and ripe, and it would taste deliciously sweet if he decides to eat it.
He doesn't though. He simply cherishes the thought that he could eat it if he wants to.
Just like he could easily cut through the alabaster skin of her neck, enjoy the sight of crimson blood spilling from her warm body.
Not yet. He has to be patient, if only for a while.
As he puts the strawberry back into the basket a slow smile creeps to his face.
His dream will come true all in good time.
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Orange
In the evenings, when the sun is like a big orange slowly sinking towards the horizon, the little girl sits on a swing in the park and watches the other kids playing. They laugh merrily as they swing to and fro, and sometimes she wishes she could still do the same.
Instead she just sits there in silence, and imagines how would it be if she was allowed to make friends with those twin sisters only a few feet away from her.
Then the man and the woman sitting on a bench nearby call for their girls and together they head back home.
The little girl smiles a sad smile and slowly begins to fade away.
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Yellow
The rational side of mind is only too willing to acknowledge that Lisbon wearing a yellow silk blouse is no big deal.
Except that Lisbon never wears yellow.
His eyes are drawn to her almost against his own will. As a rule he carefully avoids to entertain the thought of how attractive his petite firecracker of a boss actually is, but today his resolve is starting to crumble for some reasons.
She'd better not be dressing up for the new mailroom guy. Yesterday he spotted the two of them chatting friendly in the hall, and that was enough to make him wish he could punch the idiot in the nose.
He'd still deny to his dying day that he's actually jealous of her though.
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Green
When she was a kid, her mom used to take her for long walks in the park every Sunday afternoon. Then they would lie down side by side on the grass and watch the clouds fly high above them.
Nearly thirty years later she's still trying to relive those happy memories – the way her mother's eyes sparkled when she smiled, and the sound of her voice as she pointed out an odd-shaped cloud. But the memories are blurred, and she can't conjure up a proper image of her face.
That's why she just thinks of green grass and the way it felt among her fingers.
It's enough to lull her to sleep almost instantly.
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Blue
His Secret Santa gave him a blue tie this year. Why does it have to be blue, he wonders?
He doesn't need to wonder about who his Secret Santa is instead. It's Rigsby, of course; no one else would have picked anything this obvious, except for the color itself.
That's why he stoically wears the offending piece of clothing to work for a week, much to Rigsby's delight.
Then he not-so-accidentally spills his morning coffee all over himself, for he knows that the tie will be stained forever. He won't have to wear that thing anymore, but he's managed not to hurt his friend's feelings at the same time.
The sacrifice of one of his best shirts is totally worth it.
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Indigo
Sometimes when he comes back from work he just grabs a bottle of beer and sits down on his back porch watching the sky turn a deeper shade of blue.
As a boy, he used to search the night for shooting stars in the vain hope a wish could grant some happier days to him and his family.
They never did, of course. His dad was what he was, and there was little to no hope that he would change someday.
The fact that his life is a mess right now is nothing new to him. He promised he would be a better father to his own son, but he isn't so sure he's actually been so far.
Maybe he should be looking for a shooting star once again.
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Violet
She just can't say what has prompted her to come here, but she bravely sticks to her guns and leans forward in order to read his name engraved in stone.
Perhaps all she needs to do is make peace with her past before finally moving on.
Her right hand clutches desperately the bunch of violets she's bought on her way here as a sort of afterthought. She still feels angry, betrayed – and all of a sudden she's not so sure this is a good idea at all.
Nervously she runs her fingers over the little velvet flowers, then breathes in their subtle scent.
What if Craig has been a victim himself after all?
Taking a deep breath she lays the violets onto his grave. As she walks away, the hint of a smile touches the corner of her mouth at long last.