Red

A profound sadness came over Dean as his favorite red crayon broke in half. The young boy nearly burst into tears. It was their fault he snapped it. If those mean kids from the other side of the room didn’t call him names, he’d be able to finish his picture of a rose for his mommy.

He looked at them again, their jeering faces covered in milk and crumbs. Dean was never able to bring a snack to his kindergarten class: his mommy didn’t pack any, since she didn’t have any money. Every day she came to pick him up from school in the same sweater, her hair a mess and her eyes heavy. The other kids, mainly Mikey Hanson, picked on him for it, since their parents had shiny cars and brought them cookies.

A tear plopped onto Dean’s picture, making him even more upset. He hated this; staying in a school that he always felt sad in. The teachers didn’t help him, and he never had any friends. He didn’t know why. He didn’t think he was ugly or weird. Was it his mommy’s fault? What did she do? He couldn't help it if he came to school wearing the only pair of pants he had every day.

Dean began to sob quietly in the back of the room. Why were people so mean to him? He was never mean to anyone. Dean always shared his crayons if anyone else needed them.

His favorite red crayon’s carcass sat there on the table, dismayed and broken, much like Dean. He overheard Mr. Joseph and Ms. Anne talking about how mommy was sick because daddy left her. He didn’t know who daddy was, or why anyone wouldn’t give mommy a job. Mikey, Hannah, and Jean all made fun of Dean. Rickey, John, or anyone else didn’t want to be his friend. Dean began to sob louder, the attention of the whole classroom focused on him now.

He heard a big word that was said by the teachers one day. Dean heard his mom say it a lot when things turned bad, like when he spilled the carton of milk his mommy brought home.

There it was. Dean turned his head and saw Ms. Anne talking to John about something he did wrong.

That word.

He hated that word. Was he a mistake? Nobody would tell him exactly what it meant, or why people said such things. The kids in his room hated him, and he hated them.

His mommy laughed and held him close

He didn’t love his school, or the teachers, or Mikey and the others. He felt HATE. He HATED being there. He HATED not having any friends. He HATED the jokes and names. He HATED everyone who made him sad. 

He looked down at the crayon on the table, tears clouding his vision and soaking his hands. The whole room was quiet.

Red: He liked that color. Red made him feel angry. Red felt like hate. Like bad things. He remembered walking with his mom down the streets and seeing a man with red all over his chest and he was coughing and crying for help. His mommy would'nt let him look. Instead they went to another man’s house for the night. Mommy would tell him to go to sleep but he couldn't. Sometimes he would sleep in a scratchy bed with bad blankets, and mommy would come in and lay with him. She hugged him tight so he could sleep. Sometimes he would pretend he was asleep and he heard and felt her cry after she came out the room with the man.

Ms. Jean walked over to him, a concerned look on her face

Dean didn’t like this school. He didn’t like New York. He didn’t like anywhere where kids were mean because he was hungry and didn’t have TV. He didn’t like having to sleep in a different house each night. He didn’t like the men his mommy would meet.

Ms. Jean came closer to Dean.

He HATED it. He HATED everything that made him angry or sad.

Ms. Jean placed a hand on his shoulder.

Dean looked once more at the red crayon. He remember walking into the store with his mommy for food, and he saw them, the crayons; all different colors. His mommy walked to another lady and said something, and the lady gave his mommy money. Mommy bought the crayons for him and he broke his favorite one.

“Dean?” Ms. Jean asked. 

Red: it reminded him of Christmas and fires. Warm and loving, like a big heart, red.

Dean looked Ms. Jean square in the eyes.

Dean watched as Ms. Jeans eyes were squeezed until red came out of them. Her eyes flew out her head and he was shocked as the skin was torn off her face. Dean stood up and looked at Ms. Jean on the floor. He didn’t cry. He hated.

A million kids screamed at the sight. Mr. Joseph was in the corner and turned to see what the matter was. Dean walked to him, hate still in his mind.

Mr. Joseph was split in half, his stomach and guts hanging out on the floor and his long hair being ripped from his head. Dean looked as he bled and watched as Mr. Joseph’s throat was ripped open.

Dean walked to the kids trying to open the door, but the knob was too high. He shot a look at John, whose arms were ripped out his sockets and his chest exploded, revealing his bones and tissue. Red was everywhere. Mikey grabbed ahold of Dean’s arm.

“I HATE YOU!” Dean shouted in Mickey’s face, watching Mikey’s hand lose all of its fingers and his head slide off his neck.

Dean began to laugh a little. He didn’t know what was happening, but red was everywhere, and he kept on making it. He dint really know how though.

Dean shot a glance at Hannah, the girl who called him bad words that you weren’t supposed to say. In an instant, Hannah was on the ground flailing about as her favorite sweater was ripped off her body and shoved down her throat by something. She stopped moving after a while, but that was no fun—there wasn’t any red that time.

The bell on the wall went off and the kids were scrambling at the door to get out. Dean saw a bookcase next to them. It fell with great force onto two kids, smearing their heads into the floor and red splattering against the walls. Dean walked over to the puddle of red on the floor and touched it. It was like water, but stranger.

Rickey Dawson, one of the few kids that weren’t hated on just yet, kicked Dean in the stomach. Dean stepped back and doubled over. He hated Rickey; he remembered seeing him one time outside of school. Rickey pretended to be nice to him, but then was mean to him again in school.

Rickey’s mouth widened and stretched from ear to ear until the skin on his face bisected and the inner workings of his face was revealed. A giant hole in his stomach appeared and more red poured out. Dean loved it.

All good things must come to an end

Dean’s mom was right; he used enough red now. It was almost time to go home—he couldn't quite read the clock. There was too much red on it, but he thought it said one-two-five.

It wasn’t that bad a day of school; he would come again tomorrow and everyone would have band aids on and then Dean would say “sorry” and that he “only wants to be friends”. Maybe they would be, if they got up off the floor. He didn’t worry.

Dean sat down at his table, his rose still unfinished. He dipped his fingers in some red on the table and painted the petals of the rose for his mommy. She would ask what he learned today and he would tell her:

“Hate”