don't go little girl, the voices says. don't go.
But the little girl with plastic barrettes and rainbow streaks in her hair doesn't listen.
"Mommy, I made cupcakes," she carries a pink plastic play-set that she's been tinkering with. It's filled to the brim with molded little cupcakes and her smudged red fingertips clutching the box proudly.
"I made the wed kind, you like the wed kind," her delicate voice sounds lightly, an innocent tone amidst a still scene.
little girl, little girl, don't go.
The spirit of inquiry leads her down the corridor and into the big room with the white walls and soft carpet and pink bed sheet with vibrant roses. The sheets themselves are rumpled in a disorderly fashion as though reckless, gusty winds had blown through. The curtains are drawn shut, not allowing a single sliver of sunlight to illuminate the room. Strewn on the bed is a crumpled-up note and an assortment of clothes, particularly belts and ties. The whole room is eerily quiet.
This is out of the ordinary.
get as far away as possible.
The curtains are always drawn.
The sheets are always neatly folded and tucked under the the frame.
Nothing ever litters the spick-and-span bed.
The bed is always neat and made and ready and Mama would be lying there with a tinkling laugh and a welcoming smile.
Everything is wrong.
mommy, mommy, where are you?
The closet door is slightly ajar.
please don't go.
"Mama?"
it's for the best.
There is a woman.
"Mama?"
A beautiful woman with an seraphic face and still features.
Curly chestnut hair drapes her face like a veil; they masquerade for closed eyes and pale skin.
Brown eyes, unblinking, stare emptily at the ceiling.
Parted lips are curved upwards with the ghost of a graceful smile, giving her an elegantly ethereal impression.
"Mama!"
Red is everywhere.
We warned you, they cry sadly.
The little girl with the plastic barrettes and rainbow streaks is crying.
don't cry, little girl.
Red is the color of early evening sunsets. Red is the color of strawberries. Red is the color of her mother's favorite lipstick. Red is the color of blood.
Red is the color of her cupcakes.
please don't cry.
Rosy pink lips begin to tremble, the pretty pink playset discarded on the floor with the red clay cupcakes, insignificant and forgotten. The innocent voice, a jingling laugh, becomes tears of shock and sadness.
Her fingers, stained with the dye of the clay, begin to shake as she stands helplessly in the doorway.
Red is everywhere.
we told you so.
Cat Valentine has red hair for a reason.
"Like a red velvet cupcake," she says.
