Rating: PG for thematic elements

Author's Notes: I asked for prompts over on my LiveJournal when I had writer's block, and Ket was nice enough to comply. She gave me the prompt of "Silver." This was written for her in response—thank you, Ket, for helping me get my inspiration back.

(Purple)

The bruises—he remembered those the most. Three weeks into his prison term, two men had dragged him into the shadowy brush of the island and beaten him senseless. Purple had bloomed where their fists and boots had made contact with his flesh. He still didn't know why they'd done it. They hadn't taken anything, hadn't threatened him, they'd just done it, and then he'd never seen them again. However, with later encounters with later men, he knew why they did it. Other men attacked him because they wanted something—his rations, his clothes, his blanket, or—and more often than he liked to think about—just him. It never mattered who won the fight. It never mattered if he'd managed to keep his food or his clothes or his bed sheets or his dignity. Most of all, it never mattered who did it. He would always have new bruises, purple, livid, and painful.

(Blue)

The sky had been blue that day. Clear and blue—not a cloud to be seen. It had been gorgeous, absolutely pristine in its beauty, and completely flawless. A curving sheet of cerulean—rarely had the sky turned such a blue, and so endless—endless as the ocean and twice as deep. That day would have been the day he'd have gone with Lucy and Johanna to the countryside—he would've closed shop early and gone out for a late lunch with her. They would've gone to their favorite spot—the large tree on top of the hill. It looked out over a little pond, which, on still days, reflected the sky like a mirror. He'd asked Lucy to marry him under that tree, and with the very same clear blue sky stretched above them. Yes—the same mocking, merciless blue sky that had been over him when they'd checked his name, hit him once for impudence and trying to turn around to look for Lucy, who'd been screaming his name, and then shoved him onto the prisoners barge.

(Green)

Lucy had loved sunsets, and she especially loved it when the sky was clear—if clouds were present, she couldn't see the thin, almost invisible band of green that would occasionally show up. She always sat by the window on those days, and would excitedly call him over to come, come and see the green streak. He didn't quite understand why she loved it so much, but he supposed it was her gentle nature that let her see more into that delicate little line than he could—or perhaps it was merely her favorite color. Whatever it was, she would watch it until it faded—it never took long, and he would always stand beside her and watch with her, and she always told him that she loved him. Sometimes he would hold her while they watched that thin, wispy green line fade from view, and she'd lean against him, sometimes humming a song while she did.

(Yellow)

His wife's hair…towards the end, that'd been all he could remember. Just yellow—glorious, bright, and shining. He'd never seen hair like hers, nor so beautiful. Her hair challenged the sun in its intensity. He loved to have his hands and his face in it, and it was heaven itself to have his fingers in her hair and his mouth upon hers. He wondered if Johanna had pretty yellow hair. Her hair had been pale and wispy, the last he'd seen her, but who knew what color it had finally settled out into. He'd wanted her to have yellow hair—it wouldn't be far to have a girl without his beautiful Lucy's hair.

(Orange)

He always woke up in time to see the sunrise. The sunrise in Australia had almost always been bright, harsh and orange. Orange stains across the dark sky before evening out into a sickly and pale blue—it had been ugly. When he'd returned home, he'd been almost grateful for the strange white sunrise that most often accompanied him in the mornings. But, sometimes, he was bombarded by that hideous orange, only instead of spreading out across knotting, twisting jungle, it splashed over rooftops and through smoking chimneys straight into his eyes, reminding him of prison, of pain, of leeches, of cruel men, of horrible gnat swarms, of hard labor, of the smell of death—of Lucy, sitting by the window, watching a brilliant orange sunrise the morning after their wedding night.

(Red)

Red was really all he had left now. He'd shut out all other colors, the memories that came with them too hard, brutal, or sorrowful. Red was all he needed, anyway—red swatches to relieve the gloom of his self-imposed, monochromatic existence. It had started with Pirelli, his blood staining the sleeve of his shirt. It had been a sudden burst of color, and had rather shocked him with how beautiful it had been. Red had no memories—it had promise. Red was the future. All other colors were the past. He clung desperately to red and its promise of vengeance, that whisper that he would soon bathe in it. Each red burst from the next man's neck surely brought him closer and closer to Judge Turpin—and that was when he would turn the world red. He would have red—his red.

(Silver)

Silver had once been something beyond color—even above the color red. Silver had been something glorious and almost beyond him. He'd not known what it was. But he knew now—silver was death. Silver had slaughtered all other colors save red, and silver had demanded red, red, paint the world red. And in his feverous, almost dizzying scramble to obey that demand, he'd obliged silver—and he'd given his wife to silver. Silver hadn't cared who she was, and silver had split her open. Silver had killed her—killed Lucy. How he'd embraced it before—it had bewitched him into believing it was beautiful, was some sort of savior. He'd called it his salvation. Silver had made him believe it was the way—now he knew better. Silver was a great and terrible thing that had taken him and twisted him to its liking…had taken him and used him wholly in its vicious drive and desire for the color red.

Silver still wanted red. He knew that much. Silver was not satisfied—it had taken his soul, his vengeance, and his wife, but now it wanted more. He knew what it wanted—there was nothing more he could give silver, no more throats to slit so that silver might swim in the sea of red. There was no one left to kill.

Save one.

His arms tightened a little around Lucy and he leaned his head back. He hoped he was a fitting sacrifice to his dark and hungry god.