Red

Ruby, crimson, scarlet.

The colour of fire, of passion, of pain.

Red.

How I love it.

It was beautiful.

The boldness, the warmth of the colour stirred something deep inside me. It whispered to the very core of my being.

Dark, seductive.

Velvet promises of unrivalled pain and pleasure.

It made me feel alive, but it was so rarely found pure and untouched.

Red.

Its essence, I could only behold it in fleeting glimpses. It always vanished before I could really appreciate that loveliness.

Blossoms wilted, makeup faded, and the garments of passers-by were never the right shade.

I hungered for something deeper, richer than those glimpses of beauty. It was then that something occurred to me… the colour of fire, of passion, of anger, of pain, it was also the colour… blood.

Once that idea took hold of me, you can be sure it did not relinquish its hold easily. Blood was everywhere.

Whole rivers of it pulsing through the veins of billions of people around me. I had enough to paint the whole bleak, dull world red.

I started my first a year ago, I believe. I remember thinking her skin would make a wonderful canvas. Smooth and pale, and it did. Skin is so boring, so neutral and flat. So I took her to a narrow winding street that led to a dead end. Offering to walk her home, as it had gotten very late. And I reached into my pocket and closed my trembling fingers around the handle of the blade I had sharpened earlier.

I painted her red that night, she and I both.

I felt a strange rush of something akin to euphoria, dragging the sharp gleaming steel across the soft white surface and watched it come alive with red.

I drew back, and cut again and again, in long sweeping curves. Back, torso, shoulders, hips, stomach, wrists, thighs. It was even better than I’d imagined! Rich, flowing crimson poured out of every gash I’d made and splashed onto my hands, my knife, my clothes, the street.

No one heard her screams, just as no one heard my delighted laughter as I sliced open her neck in one clean movement… watched as the last lovely red poured out, warming and gushing into the street. Into the dark, deserted street as the last spark of light in her eyes went out. I stayed for a while, with her still warm corpse in my arms. Relishing the fresh, glistening colour, and smiling gently.

I knew, then, that I would do this again. Without the slightest hint of remorse. She had been just like everyone else, plain and unnoticed. I’d made her beautiful! I had painted her red.every inch, the purest brightest red i could find! It was a bit messy but that was really to be expected for the first time.

The next one would be… a work of art!

I don’t understand. They made me stop. I was completing my masterpiece! Two children, perhaps brother and sister, I planned to carve rosebuds into their skin. I had gotten quite good at making various designs and patterns but they put binds on me! Put binds on me and forced me into a flashing, wailing car! Covering up my hard work with ugly patches of cotton, and asked me questions I did not understand.

They called me awful things. A psychopath, a murderer, a lunatic.

They took my knife away.

I was only an artist! I tried to explain. My blade was my paintbrush, the world was my canvas, its people my ink! I made them beautiful in death! If only they would let me show them, let me cut them, they might see how lovely it was.

But they did not. No one understood. They repeated themselves endlessly. Murder, homicide, mutilation, assault, kidnapping, killing. Ugly words! Hateful words!

They didn’t listen. Did they want the world to be boring? To spend their lives in a monochromatic shadow of I could have made it? Perhaps they did. They wouldn’t answer my questions, would only throw more words at me. Senseless, awful words. I was not any of the things they called me. I was an artist, they were the cruel ones! Calling me names and locking me away. I was not.

But it’s okay.

Even though I was kept out of reach. Even though I was placed in this shiny white, unreasonably clean metal box they call a hospital. Even though they won’t let me see anyone else… it’s okay.

Because I didn’t need a knife to cut.

I didn’t need others to paint. I had gallons of red, pulsing and flowing in my veins.

I had my teeth, my nails as brushes. The walls of the hospital room, clean and stark, would make a perfect backdrop!

It was only a pity that… I wouldn’t be able to enjoy my last piece of artwork… this last splash of red…

…myself.