Red

Red was the color of her heels, a pair of four-inched heels, bringing her height to more than she actually was, and allowing men to notice her. A pair of perfect red heels on a pair of perfectly slender calves that any man would yearn to run his hands on, making her shudder at his hot touches. Yet she pretended to dismiss their hot stares while their wives pulled them along and away from her. She liked the admirations, but she loved it even more to see her lover clutching her waist tight; a common possessive attitude from a man who knew he was lucky to have her. Luckier still to feel her leaning against him, breasts press tight on his arm, hot whispers on his ear, making his blood pump really strong.

They walked hurriedly into the park, searching for an empty bench to ease the tension that was burning. They walked past an old couple, lovingly kissing each other. They walked past a mother tying a big balloon to her three-year-olds wrist. They walked past a young woman, sitting in the middle of the bench alone, staring blankly. Her palms lay open on her lap.

“What time is it?” She stopped them suddenly, never moving from her posture. Her voice sounding too delicate, belying the rough, ragged look about her. Yet she knew they heard her. She waited for them to reply.

“Four.” The woman in the red heels answered, obviously appalled at the stained shirt, torn slightly at the shoulder, and the stench reeking too strongly from the younger woman.

“Thank you.” And she didnt move to show her appreciation. Neither did she look at them to show the sincere gratitude in her dark, swollen eyes.

They giggled past her, dismissing her odd attitude as commonplace. There were many weirdoes in this park. They sprinted away from her to a quiet spot to ease their fiery passion, no longer remembering the strange girl.

Red was the color of her lips. A darker shade of red, more brown than it was red. Yet still red enough. She watched them, envying them for the lust and desire they had. If she could put a color to that lust, it would be red too.

Red as --, but the last word were stolen by the sudden soft breeze, caressing her lips, begging her to let it have that word. The very same wind that blew the red balloon away from the three-year-old.

“Don’t run after it!” screamed the mother.

Her red lips strained to smile at the strong bond obvious between the two. As obvious at it was to that old couple. Wrinkled as they were, with their beauty lost through the years, they were still obviously in love. If she could, she would color them all red too. A color she knew she didn’t deserve. Red was the colour of passion, a fiery color, the color of love.

She didn’t like the color red. She never did. Never. She didn’t want to remember why, but the sirens in the background, the loud wail of it, as though crying in pain as she had been before, forced her to. Those cries, those screams that she had made, begging for him to stop.

But he wouldnt. The words were not carried off by the wind this time. It stood still, wanting her to confess too.

Red was the color of love. He confessed he loved her, truly loved her. Yet he bled her, bled her when she wasn’t ready. It was too painful. She couldn’t take it. Over and over and over, he went. Over and over, and she screamed for her life, begging him to stop. Screaming like the sudden screeching of wheels behind her. So loud, so high-pitched. Anyone could have heard her, anyone could have helped her. Just like now. Just like how the mother clutched her son tight suddenly at the sound. Just like how the old couple turned in shock at the sudden screech. Just like the woman in red heels, who gasped suddenly at that screech.
But when she screamed that same sound, no one heard.

Red had never been a favorite color. She remembered how she liked the red in the rainbow to be black. She painted the red stripe black once. Her mother cried. She couldn’t understand why then. It was just a color. Black was just as good a color as red, but she didn’t like red because it hurt her. He hurt her so much. She couldn’t take it anymore.

Four o’clock. She sighed.

Her fingers balled, unwillingly on her lap. Red was a color to warn children it was hot. Just as hot as how her palms suddenly felt. Just as hot as the heat from the sudden number of cars behind her increased, the loud wailing sirens never stopping. Te wind now carried a foul smell of rubber, burnt on the hardened tar.

It wasn’t easy to move things when they were hot, but she had to. He was hurting her. She had to get him off her, but he was too heavy, pinning her down, pushing himself on her. Over and over and over until the pain numbed her. Until she realized how red he looked and she noticed how hideous the color red was. It was disgusting, she had to turn away.

And she saw the letter-opener on the very same desk he pinned her on. A shiny, long sharp object, so close to her. She took it easily, just like how that three-year-old took the candy from his mommy. His mommy soothed his cries now because he was afraid of the sudden many darkly dressed men running, so many in the park, all running towards her. She wondered why.

Red was hot. It scalded her when she plunged that letter-opener into his neck, plunged it really deep. The red it spurted out, scalded her hands, her face, her breasts, and soon his face didn’t look as red as before. But she didn’t stop. Because it didn’t hurt anymore. The color didn’t hurt her anymore. She began to like it.

Red was a fiery color and how indeed it inflamed her to cut him up more. Cut those parts that hurt her. Not caring if her white shirt was now stained. It was a good color now because it didn’t hurt anymore. It didnt. She liked red then. A lot. So much.

So if red was her favorite color, why was her mother crying then? Crying at her, as she stood at the doorway of the bedroom. She shouldn’t cry. Her little girl had learned to like red, didn’t she?

Her mother shouldn’t cry. It only made her like red more. Showed her how much too. So much, enough to bleed her whole room. She had to shut her up. Her whimpering for her life made the pain come back. She had to shut her up. It was 3:45 when her mother stopped crying. Just like these men didn’t cry as they surrounded her, guns at her, shouting away at her that if she moved, she’d be shot.

“I’m not armed.” She whispered. “I threw it away. Washed the blood away. I dont really like red.”

They pinned her down hard on the ground. It hurt but at least she liked the color green, a soft, earthy green. She smiled as the grass pricked her cheek. It didn’t hurt as bad as before. At least it was over. It wouldn’t hurt anymore. The hurt would stop now. It had been too long, ever since she painted the red stripe black. Too long. It wouldn’t hurt anymore.

“What happened?” The woman in red heels scrambled up to the old couple. She clutched her lovers arm tightly, stunned, yet watching intently as the strange woman was shoved into the police car.

“Killed her father,” said the old man.

“And mother too,” added his wife.

She nodded. They nodded back. Silence slipped between couples as the wailing started.

And then, they forgot about her. They didnt know her.

“Oh, I like your shoes,” noticed the old woman, suddenly.

“The woman looked down. Yeah, red’s my favorite color.”