This is not an official chapter, just an interlude to make up for the last chapter being short... It was fun to write nn

Colors… so many of them, so many associations, insinuations. Whether it be natural or through conditioning, we as humans take away the same impressions when color is a key component.

One's color of choice says a lot about them, or so the general consensus seems to be. If you like yellow, you are said to be quite cheerful, if you like green, you are nurturing, if you like black, you are quite blasé.

I like red, but that's very much a secret. It lets on too much that I like to keep hidden. It's a tell that I have passion, that I feel. I have a temper that rages, though I keep it well under wraps. Red, the color of hate, love, blood...

The Devil himself is often depicted as having red skin. My father himself, the devil of my life, the devil to many dimensions, has red skin. When he takes me over, brushing aside the many years I have labored to keep him out like so many cobwebs, my eyes glow a menacing red. It's a warning, like a traffic light, "Stop, danger ahead…"

The color of many a harlot's lips is of this same color. The color of sinful love, the color that seduces men of weak moral fiber. The color many God-fearing women don on occasion to incite such lust in their rightfully wedded. The color wrapped around so many heart-shaped boxes in February.

Rosy cheeks, from the cold. Blush, from a lover's touch. Glowing marks from a slap, a pinch, a punch. Flushed from the heat or a hearty laugh. Deep red flowing forth from a nasty wound, or barely seeping from a paper cut. Blood shot eyes, nervously bitten lips, woefully sunburned backs.

I am all these. Daughter of a demon, temptress, extant. A frenzied tempest of feeling, want, impulses. I feel the indignant fury when friends so dear are attacked and dishonored. I feel my heart swell with affection when a compliment is unexpectedly thrust upon me. In my secret heart, I have a wild, reckless victory dance. I perform it at the end of every battle, every morning we all wake up satisfied with the lives we lead, every meal that is concluded without an argument. All this, however, is under layers of pretense and practice.

I am the strong, stoic mystic. I am the center of calm in this tumultuous life we five insist upon carrying out. Even in the dull days, when we do not live so furiously, I continue to hold up my position. I read books to live vicariously through the characters and know what it is to feel freely. I cannot let my friends, who depend on my steady hand and unwavering disposition, that I feel panic, fear. I cannot let them know that I weep without abandon—at least, I would were I not so practiced. I cannot show affection, or worry, so often they are misinterpreted as weaknesses.

I will not allow myself the indulgence of favoring one over any other, for that could become a liability. To be sure, I am also quite afraid of the rejection. I will not offer up my heart to be broken. Love of that kind is distanced from my heart and my head, so skillfully that I take a twisted satisfaction in thinking I would not recognize it should it surface. And I will not deal with that that which will not make itself known to me.

I will not let them know of my crimson self. So I lie. I little white lie to keep up appearances, to further deceive those that trust me with their lives. "My favorite color is blue," I say. Ah, that's better suited to this persona I've worked so hard to upkeep. Blue, a calm, serene color. Very nearly mysterious. Blue will do just fine.

I do not decorate my Sunday with extra cherries to satisfy aesthetics in favor of what I truly am. I do not stare fascinated at a certain female teammate's hair, cascading in a ruby fall. I do not envy my leader's uniform, worn so boldly in the dark alleys, flying in the face of stealth. Well, I don't overtly envy it.

There are a few ways I allow myself to hold close the coveted vermillion. The red jewels on my person, a comfort to see. My hair and eyes, both violet. Why does violet count? Well, of course, it's a mix of blue and red. A hint of my true self bleeding through the façade. A skillful eye with notice many of my books have ruddy spines or jackets—I'll never admit that I wait for an edition that has such a trivial quality.

Ha, um, sorry this didn't get posted Wednesday, I had a little change in my plans... ended up spending the day with a guy that would later drive me to the show and get jealous when a guitarist hit on me.

If you haven't heard of Nightmare of You, give them a listen! They're really a pleasure and a great bunch of guys to boot. The (International) Noise Conspiracy headlined the show, but I was there for Nightmar of You... I totally couldn't understand INC, I think the venue was too small and garbled their voices...