Red- Part 2
Why? Why had she done it? It was red now- glaring back at him angrily- reminding him of the blood, the blood of his past, a past he wanted to forget, he needed to forget. He remembered it now- and it was red, red like the room, red like the walls, red- oh so very red. And it hurt him because she had done it, because she had made it red and brought back the blood. And she had asked him if he liked it- how could he like it? How could he like the blood when all it meant was pain, pain, pain, the endless pain that continued even when he closed his eyes, even when he fell into a dreamless sleep. Because the dark that was the absence of the dream was the end- was his death. And the pain plagued him still- it would, for eternity, even when he tried to forget. And the red, the red of his past had come back to haunt him now- mocking him from his own walls. His own white haven had been plagued by the red- and she had done it out of jealousy, envy- the sparks of spite danced in her eyes and the love he had felt for her fell off the thin line it walked and became hate, twisting and turning, the sorrow inside becoming anger, insatiable anger. He shoved her away from him- but it wasn't far enough- it was never far enough because the anger wasn't sated and it's appetite was roused. He stood, shaking with rage, trying his best not to lose his grip on himself- trying not to become as spiteful as she, as horrible as her. He couldn't contain it- the anger wanted to lash out, to become the angry whip he'd use to harm her. And then he saw the blood, the red and the blood- her blood, blood he had caused and suddenly he was as bad as them- he was wrong- he was causing the pain and he had become all that he'd promised he'd never become, all that he had hated with all his heart. He was they who inflicted pain upon the undeserving. He sank to his knees in the hollow realization and the self-hate that suddenly filled him. Why? Why, why, why did he do that? Why did he hurt her? Why, why? He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her gently on the forehead as if to apologize- as if to make-up for all they had done to him. She looked up at him and he knew she was confused at what he was doing. He was confused too, unsure of his sudden inner conflict. She looked at him, wondering, and he said the first thing that came to mind. "Why?"
It wasn't so much of a question for her, but for himself, for them. Her eyes narrowed and she was searching her reasons, searching for an answer. He was searching too. He was unaware that they had previously called each other's names and he called her attention to him now.
"Mariah?"
He was about to ask her again, when she turned her tear-wet gaze upon him, smiling slightly. "Because it looks better red."
His heart sunk- it was horrible red and he was remembering, becoming painfully aware of reality again. And his thoughts shifted again- he had lost another loved one to hatred. And he recalled the day his parents had died - how red it had been, as if some final judgement to all they torture they'd caused him- the carpet had been so red and he remembered trying to clean it up- with the cloth and the tears of guilt but it would never come clean because he was the cause of it. And because he had hated them it would stay forever red- because they had stained his past with blood, stained his past forever red like the carpet in that forgotten house. And now, Mariah had stained his walls- and he could no longer escape the blood.
End Part 2
Why? Why had she done it? It was red now- glaring back at him angrily- reminding him of the blood, the blood of his past, a past he wanted to forget, he needed to forget. He remembered it now- and it was red, red like the room, red like the walls, red- oh so very red. And it hurt him because she had done it, because she had made it red and brought back the blood. And she had asked him if he liked it- how could he like it? How could he like the blood when all it meant was pain, pain, pain, the endless pain that continued even when he closed his eyes, even when he fell into a dreamless sleep. Because the dark that was the absence of the dream was the end- was his death. And the pain plagued him still- it would, for eternity, even when he tried to forget. And the red, the red of his past had come back to haunt him now- mocking him from his own walls. His own white haven had been plagued by the red- and she had done it out of jealousy, envy- the sparks of spite danced in her eyes and the love he had felt for her fell off the thin line it walked and became hate, twisting and turning, the sorrow inside becoming anger, insatiable anger. He shoved her away from him- but it wasn't far enough- it was never far enough because the anger wasn't sated and it's appetite was roused. He stood, shaking with rage, trying his best not to lose his grip on himself- trying not to become as spiteful as she, as horrible as her. He couldn't contain it- the anger wanted to lash out, to become the angry whip he'd use to harm her. And then he saw the blood, the red and the blood- her blood, blood he had caused and suddenly he was as bad as them- he was wrong- he was causing the pain and he had become all that he'd promised he'd never become, all that he had hated with all his heart. He was they who inflicted pain upon the undeserving. He sank to his knees in the hollow realization and the self-hate that suddenly filled him. Why? Why, why, why did he do that? Why did he hurt her? Why, why? He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her gently on the forehead as if to apologize- as if to make-up for all they had done to him. She looked up at him and he knew she was confused at what he was doing. He was confused too, unsure of his sudden inner conflict. She looked at him, wondering, and he said the first thing that came to mind. "Why?"
It wasn't so much of a question for her, but for himself, for them. Her eyes narrowed and she was searching her reasons, searching for an answer. He was searching too. He was unaware that they had previously called each other's names and he called her attention to him now.
"Mariah?"
He was about to ask her again, when she turned her tear-wet gaze upon him, smiling slightly. "Because it looks better red."
His heart sunk- it was horrible red and he was remembering, becoming painfully aware of reality again. And his thoughts shifted again- he had lost another loved one to hatred. And he recalled the day his parents had died - how red it had been, as if some final judgement to all they torture they'd caused him- the carpet had been so red and he remembered trying to clean it up- with the cloth and the tears of guilt but it would never come clean because he was the cause of it. And because he had hated them it would stay forever red- because they had stained his past with blood, stained his past forever red like the carpet in that forgotten house. And now, Mariah had stained his walls- and he could no longer escape the blood.
End Part 2