The Crimson Stain
Everything was blue or white.
The colour of ice, the colour of snow– the colour of death – of the unwanted fluids in her veins. Dragging her under in their cold embrace. Wondering each time if this would be the last time, if this time the cold was permanent. If this time she would sleep forever, frozen in shattered pieces.
Then someone had come. Removed the needles. Someone the girl almost knew – "Someone". That was almost the name…
Someone had removed the needles; for a moment, looking into their eyes, the girl had almost felt warm. But Someone replaced the old needles with new ones, placed the girl in a box, pressed a button, and the girl knew cold like never before.
The girl awoke to flashing lights, and screaming voices; to whirling faces, old and new.
The girl's hands touched something like ice; tactile memory recalled this was skin, slippery with frigidity.
The girl was so tired of being cold.
And then she saw it. A blazing beacon of heat and light. A colour so warm, so lovely, so redolent of life and health, the girl had forgotten it existed. It warmed her, comforted, promised a haven from the chill of gurneys, of restraints, of jabbing needles.
Then there were new sensations, new textures on her skin – clothes, an almost forgotten voice prompted. To the girl's sorrow, the colour immediately retreated a little.
Much time may have passed or little. The girl did not know. The ability to slice the continuum into small manageable portions was just one of the many things they had taken from her. Someone became Simon; new faces became friends. The cold in part retreated, but never entirely withdrew. Lucidity was almost within grasp.
Almost.
Lucidity was clearest at the optimum temperature.
But one thing the girl came to recognise was that the colour clothed a man, that he embodied it. The fact the man had a girl's name caused much confusion, but slow-returning senses assured her it was a man nonetheless.
So did he.
With growing anger.
But that was welcome – frustration, anger, desire. They all glowed the same bright hue, rousing her numb spirit, thawing her frozen body.
The girl did not know how long it took the colour to change, but she knew that it was receding more and more; changing from glowing warmth to cooler shades. To her great confusion and even greater melancholy.
And then it was a sickly yellow, an envious green. Shades of illness, decay and bitterness. The horrible chartreuse jabbed at her eyes, pecked at her mind. She wanted the first colour back; she needed the first colour back.
The girl was going under once again.
Then the worst offence of all – the man was bathed in blue; clothed in ice, clothed in death, his beautiful warmth subsumed.
No!
The man should not be these colours. The man was meant to be warm. Simple, wonderful warmth. He needed her to restore his original colour. If the girl restored him to his former glory, maybe then he would embrace her and share his life-giving warmth.
The discoloured hide must be peeled away. The girl chose her implement.
Reaching out an arm, she freed the man in a long swipe of fiery feeling, welcoming the fire of his backhanded embrace.
"He looks better in red," she murmured.