The rage gives him strength. His fists, once so weak and frail and thin, have more power than they ever had. The fear and the pain and the hurt and the constant thrum of this shouldn't have happened to him that drums through his head suddenly fades away, and there's only one thing; red.
/
He never knows what is happening, the world too hazy in his half-lucid state. It's jarring how it almost seems like a dream, the way it all seems so fluid. The colours are brighter, jarring in their intensity. It's a fantasy where his past can never change but it's his revenge to take. He acts without thinking, without needing to think.
/
He wakes up in pain and the light has been dyed scarlet. His hands, his clothes, the ground, the sky, redredred. The same colour associated with what once had been release. There's an innocent little girl, who'd be so pretty and nice if only her eyes would open again, and he's horrified to see that the hue has been painted on her as well. Across her neck and arms, joining the violet flowers that mar her lily white skin. He runs. He flees his on sins like he always had, the guilt and shame even brighter than the vermillion that has dashed itself across his skin, painting him in the stolen life of another.
/
The rage gives his grief and pain. His fists, now too strong for him to ever control, are his worst enemy. He's imprisoned in a cage of death and destruction and blame that he will never escape. The world is shaded in but one hue; red.