The Color of Red
((note: the name "Rufus" actually means "red" in Latin))
He huddled farther back into the corner in which he hid. Hid from his father, hid from the pain, hid from the fear. Hid from the world.
He whimpered softly to himself. Gently, he pressed one side of his aching face to the cool wall of the hallway. Alone.
Hundreds of questions raced through his mind, but he had no answers for them. He never did.
The blood was gone. He had wiped it away from his lips, his face, his hands. So much blood. Dazedly, he wondered when it first started that he couldn't stand the sight of the color of red.
Red, the color of his blood. Red, the color of his father's suits. Red, the color of the lights that exploded inside his head whenever a hand struck him. Red, the color that stained his clothes.
Red showed up so terribly well on white.
He bent over his lab table, greasy black hair hanging in his face. It hid him from he public, hid him from their protests, hid him from their ethics. Hid him from his conscience.
He chuckled softly, how ironic. That one word "conscience," the thing he lacked, also held the word hat he gave it up for. "Science."
Hundreds of answers raced through his mind, but they lacked the right questions. They always did.
The specimens were gone. He had taken them from their cages and moved them elsewhere, keeping only small samples. Except one. He gazed at the operating table in front of him, littered with red.
Red, the color of the man's eyes, who now lay strapped to the table. Red, the color of the tuft of fur that lay under a microscope. Red, the color of the rage he felt from the man's mind.
Red was such a powerful color.
He leaned back against the wall and tapped his weapon at his side. It was what kept him safe from others. Safe from his past. Safe from power. Safe from himself.
He sighed softly, it hurt. Memories from the past welled up despite his repeated attempts to forget. Broken.
Hundreds of pictures raced through his mind, but they were all devoid of happiness. There was none.
His old life was gone. He had deliberately buried it in the furthest reaches of his cold heart. It returned. Vainly, he tried to push the thoughts from his mind, the thoughts filled with the color of red.
Red, the color of his unruly hair, once shared by his sister. Red, the color of his knife after he had wrecked his vengeance. Red, the color of the streets in the Midgar slums.
Red permanently stained his soul.