As you'll see in a moment, this little chapter makes me very, very sad. But I promise that the next one will be happier. Much happier. So if you can stay strong through this one, the next will be quite joyful.
I tell you this because this is one of those dreaded deathfics. But the inspiration hit me, and who am I to ignore inspiration?
I will, once again, let you decide who you think this is about. Speedy? Jinx? Argent? Raven? Beast Boy? Robin? Starfire? Cyborg? Go ahead. Think outside of the box. I DARE you. :)
And now I'm going to go cry. And mope around for a bit. And then tell myself to take it like a man. Girl. And then wipe away my tears and start on the more joyful second chapter, which will be entitled 'Orange', because guess what? It's a rainbow-themed seven chapters! Yay!
So here's 'Red'. I am posting it, and I am very afraid of it, and I hope you lovely reviewers are not afraid of me. Because I love you dearly. Just, you know, not in that way. :)
With tearful, review-adoring love,
Seraephina
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Prompt #8: Red
Red.
A beautiful color, supposedly. Strong. Vivid. The color of passion. The color of good wine.
The color of roses.
The color of blood.
She'd had a fairytale view of roses once. Rich red color. Given to a woman by their true love. A symbol of happiness.
She'd had a fairytale view of blood as well. The same deep red as a rose. Symbolizing pain, but pain that could quickly be soothed and forgotten. A symbol of healing.
Red roses. Red blood.
She'd thought that exact, bloody color of red was beautiful. She'd thought roses were beautiful, too. But not anymore. Not now, when roses just reminded her of the casket, and not now, when blood just reminded her of death.
Death wasn't beautiful. And because they were intertwined, neither were roses. What stole the beauty away was the fact that death was staring her in the face—ironically, in the shape of a face.
She hated irony at that moment. Hated it passionately.
Death, at that moment, was closed eyelids, hiding the deeply colored eyes from seeing their own funeral. Too-pale skin, a color that spoke softly of blood replaced by chemicals, fluids designed to hide the stench of the slowly rotting flesh. Fingernails that had faded from soft pink to a stark white. Lips that were arranged just-so, instead of their usual careless smile or studious frown. A stiff, crisp black tux, one that had been insisted upon because the body underneath was shredded to pieces and not fit for the tabloids to see.
Death, at that moment, was also the roses draped around the casket. Heaps of roses. Masses of roses. Every one colored with that gut-wrenching, bloody shade of red, the shade that had also been insisted upon because it was labeled as 'poetic'.
Death wasn't beautiful to her in that moment. Roses weren't beautiful, either. Her fairy tale thoughts had been demolished.
The same fairytale thoughts had always wondered about that metaphor from the romance novels: the one where, in a moment of betrayal or grief, one lover's heart is ripped from the chest, torn to pieces, and tossed into a blender with the dial set to 'obliterate'.
Wondering was bitter in her mouth when she finally realized the sheer accuracy of the statement. And she would have given anything—anything at all—to wash the bitter taste away.
She would have given more to have her old thoughts back.
She wanted her naivety back.
She wanted her fairy tales back.
She didn't want the new thoughts, the ones that were jaded, veterans of heartbreak, and yet still screaming with the rawness of the fresh pain.
She didn't want the pain either, but it had curled up in her chest anyway. It had made its nest. It had dug its sharp little teeth into her heart until she was forced to harden it. And still it stayed—hurting enough so that she carried a constant ache around with her, and cutting so exquisitely that each fresh wave of pain was like the first.
The pain was there to stay.
And so were the new thoughts.
But the new thoughts were painful, and she couldn't deal with pain, not right now. Not when he was laying in a shiny black casket, one that he would have hated anyway because it was so pretentious. Not when he was surrounded by masses of blood-red roses, which he would have laughed at because he said flowers were for chicks. Not when she was wearing a black dress she didn't like and not when eye makeup was streaming down her face in soot-colored swirls and not when there were still gashes on her arms from the brief, horrific minutes before he came and saved the day. Not when each pound of her heart reminded her of both the pain nestled inside, and the knowledge that his saving her had ended his own life.
Not when she was spinning, wheeling away from the seat on the pew with the dusty purple cushion, ignoring the gasps and photographic clicks when she fell to her knees. Not when she was staggering up, soul sucked out of her body from the sheer hatred of death, running away from it all and tripping on the heels she had never wanted to wear.
And certainly not when his sightless eyes were smoldering on her back as if he could still see even beyond death, when she was running and running and running even though she couldn't escape any of it, when her entire vision was a sea of red the particular shade of his blood, when she could still imagine it gushing from between her fingers as she implored him to fight, to fight, damnit, to not just give up and die.
Each pound of her heart sent pain gnawing away at her chest. Each labored breath seemed to sear at her lungs like the knife must have seared his. And each stride of her stiletto-clad feet just reminded her that though she could run—away from his funeral, away from his grave—she could never escape, because that particular shade of red would follow her everywhere.
And she would have given away her soul for that red to just be beautiful again.