On a dreary day, a man looked out and decided he'd think about something stupid. He knew it was stupid, for a child had made the question up first. Why couldn't white be in the summer?
His boredom drove his answer. Silver was never friendly. Blue was never exuberant. Yellow was never dreary. Pink will always be his least favorite color.
He kept only one memory.
It wasn't because it was girly. 'No,' his mind replied to him, as he sat there, cigarette hanging off of his lip, 'that had nothing to do with it.' To him, it was impure.
Pink starts out as red. Right? He quickly looked it over in his mind. Yeah, that made sense. He narrowed his eyes. Oh, yeah, that definitely sounded right.
A picture lay torn in the drawer next to his bed.
After all, all you have to do is add a little white, or maybe just a hint of purple, and what do you get? Prissy fucking pink.
He could remember a certain occasion that white and red joined, that they swirled and combined. He doubted he'd ever forget.
He tore up the picture to stop looking.
He took a long drag before throwing to the side. So what if he made a fire? He wouldn't get burned. He smirked. Nah, he was too good to get caught.
Like so many had told him. The businessman had. The boy did, too. The goody-two-shoe idiots reminded him nearly everyday. The maniac tried everything to prove otherwise. And the past didn't need to.
The picture was so worn before he'd ripped it up.
He growled at his turn of thoughts. What was the need? Those things did no good. At least colors amused him. Other than pink…
Not that he wanted to think about that right now.
Even so, he could remember each face in utmost clarity.
Thinking always led him to things he didn't like. That's what thinking is for. There is no enjoyment involved.
Of course, being who he was, there was no way to stop thinking. So, in response, pink came back to him again.
He knew each person's story, each person's phony face.
He didn't like what he saw, especially the flowery pattern along the wall. He'd never really liked flowers, not those girly things women loved to death. That wasn't him.
Hell, he didn't even like women, with their whining, their selfishness and insensitivity. They were disgusting creatures. He grinned mirthlessly. Ironic as hell that he still needed them to have a good time.
One look brought everything back, just like a dream, though it was closer to a nightmare.
And, he thought, somewhat revolted, their color was pink. It may not be their favorite color, but it was definitely their theme. He hated it with a passion.
He could still remember the red soaking into the white, still remember the horrific picture forming once again in his mind.
He could see the smiles, the tears, could still hear their cries of joy. Among other things…
Not that it was new. It just had been recycled. Somehow, though, no matter what locks he put on the tainted material, he couldn't get it to stay put. Memories are a bitch.
"Do you run from God, still?" Curious voices cause curious minds, so he turned towards it and found the maniac. He smiled.
He could remember they were deaf. He'd been sure of it by the end.
"Of course I do," he answered easily. "There's nothing else for me to do." Crazed eyes were lucid, yet strangely glazed. Medication did amazing things.
"Would you stop for a while, if I asked?" He snorted.
The picture was his memory, and when he ripped it, he thought it would go away.
"You know the answer to that." The maniac smiled back at him. He turned away. "Why?"
A man never tells his motive unless he wants to get caught. He knew this, but he tried anyways.
Yet they didn't go away, and he knew now they never would.
"Tell me the rest of the story." He looked back at the maniac, eyes automatically driving themselves to the man's pale arm. He watched as the maniac smeared the red on pale skin, making pink. He clenched his jaw.
"Now?" The maniac sat down beside him, rubbing the pink in a bit more. The silver in his hand glinted in the light, and he watched it somewhat hypnotically.
He could still remember, hiding in that closet…
"Start." He shot the man an irritated look, unable to stop glancing towards the maniac's arm.
"No." His medicated companion merely pulled his silver down again, making more red to blend with the white on his arm.
…watching his dying father…
"Start." The maniac looked at him, still rubbing, still mixing. His stomach churned.
"Will you stop?" The maniac stared in his direction.
…bleeding on the white carpet…
"Why?" He grit his teeth.
"Just answer the goddamn question!" He brushed his orange hair away from his face.
…with two women standing over him.
"Yes." He sighed in relief.
"It all started when a woman named Emily and my father married. She was a gold digging bitch like her sister-"
He took a picture and named it guilt. Just like him.