Crimson
By dementia395
- 428 reads
Crimson
The sky bleeds crimson all along the horizon. The sun falls slowly into
the ocean, meeting its own reflection as it sinks into the blood red
waters. Ubiquitous brightness tugs in one direction, the constantly
evident darkness instills fear. What is that?? That underlying fear
that penetrates and imbeds itself in your being? Entering through your
pores, twisting itself into your intestines, filling your throat, and
then finally curling lovingly around your eyes. I've been poisoned by
it. I can feel the concoction flowing through my blood, contaminating
all that was left pure, not that there was much left to begin with.
Guilt rests upon my shoulders. Mournful, degenerate eyes fix me with
their glare. The blame has been placed into my own field and I'm not
about to step out of its light. I don't deny it. Endless injuries and
deaths have been inflicted by these hands. The endless waltz we've been
made to dance.
~Midnight, the end~
She slipped in beside me. Crimson covered. Whispers "Kane." The name
means more now. We sleep. With dawn comes breakfast. I wake up alone,
clean, painless. My visitor's gone as she always is. Methodically
dress, find my daughter. I remember. Exultantly I bound downstairs and
fling my daughter into the air, accidentally bumping her head on the
light fixture. "Ow?daddy!!" "I remember!!" My daughter shrieks with
bliss. Heh, I still owe her a gift. I'll have to remember that.
"Where's mommy? We can't keep her from the excitement. After all, she
helped a lot." "?Daddy, I thought you said you remembered." "I do." /I
think?/ Mom walks in, black raincoat covered with droplets. "Mom, I
remember! Where is she? We need to share my 'triumphant return.'" "I
went to visit her today. She looks undisturbed." It's gray outside. The
room has fallen silent. My daughter's sniffling quietly into my shirt,
causing little dark blotches to appear. My mother's words don't make
sense. "I went to visit her today." /Visited? Isn't she here?/ Wait a
minute. I place my daughter down into a chair and bolt into the room I
just sped from. The rose sits quietly, untouched where it was lain
yesterday. Sheets pristine and fresh. No blood. No pain. Unreality. I
remember. The time of death...3:17.
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