This is.. rather depressing. And it contains suicide, what can technically be called domestic violence, and alcohol use.
Don't read if you're offended by any of the above, please?
I read the writing guidelines, and I don't think this is breaking any rules, but if it is, mods, please let me know and I'll edit accordingly or I'll delete it, okay?
The gorgeous banner that's below is by Demonata on here, she's so kind to me
__________________________
Red. A simple color. Or not. Red is the color of blood, crimson, staining. It's the color of sins, eternally damning you. It's the opposite of pure, the opposite of angels. It is the color of sinners, and the marks they leave on the world. It's your favorite color.
Your fingernails are scarlet, all of your favorite clothes are a shade of red. You wear a ruby ring every day. Red is you. You are red. It's what you love, and it suits you. You are a sinner, and red is the color of sins. Red stains are there on your hands, sticky.
You hurt people. You hurt them and then you run. You ripped my heart out, and you laughed. You laughed and washed your hands of the crimson, sinful color. You made me bleed. Those long, elegant fingernails scratched my face, clawed at my chest. What did I do? This is all just a game to you. You'll move onto your next victim, getting their trust. When they would give up anything for you, you'll rip them apart.
Is this all you live for? Tearing people apart, staining your hands with the crimson once more? Time passes, and people heal, but they don't heal when you come back around for another try that ruins them. You already gave me scars. You came back to give more, to hurt more.
You were dressed in a long red dress at a party. You saw me across the room and began to push through the crowd, no doubt scratching them with ruby red fingernails. You finally reached me, and you took my cheeks in your hands. I felt your bright red lips press into mine, and I thought about times before. You were a force of destruction, crashing down on things and destroying their beauty. Destruction has never looked quite so beautiful to me.
Your slender fingers traced light patterns on my arm, and I shivered. This feels so familiar. You were the same with me before, and the same with every other person you crushed. This is cruel of you. You have never been nice, but you are not often so cruel. I had wished for you back so many times, wished you had stayed. My wish has been granted, for the worse. This is the worst thing I could have wanted.
Your razor sharp fingernails dance softly over my face, feeling every crease, every imperfection. You press harder, leaving marks but no blood on my skin. I reach up to stop you, but you move faster. Your lips are on mine again, suddenly. I find myself kissing you, poisoning my body. This is not healthy for me. You are a poisonous sin. You bite my lip, hard enough to make it bleed. I taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood flowing into my mouth, and you pull away. Your laugh rings out, like soft, tinkling bells, and you follow the trail of the blood down my face. The bartender hands you a napkin, thinking you will wipe away the blood. You don't. You mock me with it, pretending to wipe blood from your own mouth. Then, you crumple it and throw it on the ground, hitting your hand on the table. One of those crimson nails breaks, and hits the floor. I hear it. It hits with a soft ticking sound, and I look down. You grab my chin and pull it up, forcing me to look at a disastrous beauty.
I look, gazing upon my downfall. You laughed again, softer than before. I'm suddenly aware of your closeness, everything about you. Your long dark hair, covering your eyes, making you look more innocent than you are. Your pale skin, strikingly white against all of your red, tries to defy your sins, your true self. Your brown eyes, cold and hard rather than warm and inviting, draw me in, making me want to stay with you. All of the bright scarlet, the dark ruby, and the flowing crimson, your lips, your nails, your clothes. It paints a picture of a pretty girl, but also a girl more dangerous than the worst serial killer. Hurting people is what you live for.
Your eyes meet mine, and you raise your glass of wine to your lips. Surprisingly, it is not red, but white. You look over my shoulder instead now, and what you see seems to startle you. Your glass falls to the ground, and I hear it break, splashing your legs with wine. You trail your fingers along my arm again, and drop something green on the table. Your shoes click against the shiny wooden dance floor, and the door opens, taking you away from me for what I hope is the last time.
I glance at the table, wondering what you dropped. It is merely money, of no importance. You are gone, and I feel worse than if you had stayed with me. I bite my own lip now, not hard enough to make it bleed, but enough to make it begin to hurt. I step over the glass and wine you spilled, tempted to follow you out the door. I shouldn't, of course. It doesn't stop the want, the burning want, to chase you, but I stop. Another encounter with you may be my last. I do what any intelligent person would do, and go home.
I walk straight to the bathroom, no stops, no lights turned on. I turn on a light inside the bathroom and inspect myself. My lip is bloody still, and my nice black pants are covered in wine at the bottom. I wipe the blood from my lip, and change into dry clothes. Taking a shower would be too much effort now, as I mourn the last loss of you. Never to see you again... That's what I thought the last time, and you appeared when I least expected it.
My phone rings. You wouldn't call me... would you? Why bother, after walking out on me? I cross the hallway and go into the kitchen. The cordless phone is sitting on the table and I grab it.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I'm sorry." Click.
It was you. You... apologized. Why would you do such a thing?
I turn on the television the next morning, to the news. It's always so depressing, but I force myself to watch it. The story being covered now is about a woman, found sprawled out on the pavement outside a bar. Pictures of a woman in a long dress, lying on the ground in a pool of blood, appear on the screen. She was found with a cell phone beside her, and a knife buried in her stomach. What drove you to take your life, my love?
I run out of my house, run to the scene of your 'murder'. I know the truth. You weren't a murder victim. You killed yourself, adding more red to your body. I see the lights, the chalk outline on the ground. Your body is still there, your dark hair matted with drying blood. Your pale skin is ghostly white, and your red dress is dark with sticky, wet blood and dirt. I don't want to see you like this.
Why did it end this way?
Don't read if you're offended by any of the above, please?
I read the writing guidelines, and I don't think this is breaking any rules, but if it is, mods, please let me know and I'll edit accordingly or I'll delete it, okay?
The gorgeous banner that's below is by Demonata on here, she's so kind to me
__________________________
Red. A simple color. Or not. Red is the color of blood, crimson, staining. It's the color of sins, eternally damning you. It's the opposite of pure, the opposite of angels. It is the color of sinners, and the marks they leave on the world. It's your favorite color.
Your fingernails are scarlet, all of your favorite clothes are a shade of red. You wear a ruby ring every day. Red is you. You are red. It's what you love, and it suits you. You are a sinner, and red is the color of sins. Red stains are there on your hands, sticky.
You hurt people. You hurt them and then you run. You ripped my heart out, and you laughed. You laughed and washed your hands of the crimson, sinful color. You made me bleed. Those long, elegant fingernails scratched my face, clawed at my chest. What did I do? This is all just a game to you. You'll move onto your next victim, getting their trust. When they would give up anything for you, you'll rip them apart.
Is this all you live for? Tearing people apart, staining your hands with the crimson once more? Time passes, and people heal, but they don't heal when you come back around for another try that ruins them. You already gave me scars. You came back to give more, to hurt more.
You were dressed in a long red dress at a party. You saw me across the room and began to push through the crowd, no doubt scratching them with ruby red fingernails. You finally reached me, and you took my cheeks in your hands. I felt your bright red lips press into mine, and I thought about times before. You were a force of destruction, crashing down on things and destroying their beauty. Destruction has never looked quite so beautiful to me.
Your slender fingers traced light patterns on my arm, and I shivered. This feels so familiar. You were the same with me before, and the same with every other person you crushed. This is cruel of you. You have never been nice, but you are not often so cruel. I had wished for you back so many times, wished you had stayed. My wish has been granted, for the worse. This is the worst thing I could have wanted.
Your razor sharp fingernails dance softly over my face, feeling every crease, every imperfection. You press harder, leaving marks but no blood on my skin. I reach up to stop you, but you move faster. Your lips are on mine again, suddenly. I find myself kissing you, poisoning my body. This is not healthy for me. You are a poisonous sin. You bite my lip, hard enough to make it bleed. I taste the sharp, metallic tang of blood flowing into my mouth, and you pull away. Your laugh rings out, like soft, tinkling bells, and you follow the trail of the blood down my face. The bartender hands you a napkin, thinking you will wipe away the blood. You don't. You mock me with it, pretending to wipe blood from your own mouth. Then, you crumple it and throw it on the ground, hitting your hand on the table. One of those crimson nails breaks, and hits the floor. I hear it. It hits with a soft ticking sound, and I look down. You grab my chin and pull it up, forcing me to look at a disastrous beauty.
I look, gazing upon my downfall. You laughed again, softer than before. I'm suddenly aware of your closeness, everything about you. Your long dark hair, covering your eyes, making you look more innocent than you are. Your pale skin, strikingly white against all of your red, tries to defy your sins, your true self. Your brown eyes, cold and hard rather than warm and inviting, draw me in, making me want to stay with you. All of the bright scarlet, the dark ruby, and the flowing crimson, your lips, your nails, your clothes. It paints a picture of a pretty girl, but also a girl more dangerous than the worst serial killer. Hurting people is what you live for.
Your eyes meet mine, and you raise your glass of wine to your lips. Surprisingly, it is not red, but white. You look over my shoulder instead now, and what you see seems to startle you. Your glass falls to the ground, and I hear it break, splashing your legs with wine. You trail your fingers along my arm again, and drop something green on the table. Your shoes click against the shiny wooden dance floor, and the door opens, taking you away from me for what I hope is the last time.
I glance at the table, wondering what you dropped. It is merely money, of no importance. You are gone, and I feel worse than if you had stayed with me. I bite my own lip now, not hard enough to make it bleed, but enough to make it begin to hurt. I step over the glass and wine you spilled, tempted to follow you out the door. I shouldn't, of course. It doesn't stop the want, the burning want, to chase you, but I stop. Another encounter with you may be my last. I do what any intelligent person would do, and go home.
I walk straight to the bathroom, no stops, no lights turned on. I turn on a light inside the bathroom and inspect myself. My lip is bloody still, and my nice black pants are covered in wine at the bottom. I wipe the blood from my lip, and change into dry clothes. Taking a shower would be too much effort now, as I mourn the last loss of you. Never to see you again... That's what I thought the last time, and you appeared when I least expected it.
My phone rings. You wouldn't call me... would you? Why bother, after walking out on me? I cross the hallway and go into the kitchen. The cordless phone is sitting on the table and I grab it.
"Hello?" I ask.
"I'm sorry." Click.
It was you. You... apologized. Why would you do such a thing?
I turn on the television the next morning, to the news. It's always so depressing, but I force myself to watch it. The story being covered now is about a woman, found sprawled out on the pavement outside a bar. Pictures of a woman in a long dress, lying on the ground in a pool of blood, appear on the screen. She was found with a cell phone beside her, and a knife buried in her stomach. What drove you to take your life, my love?
I run out of my house, run to the scene of your 'murder'. I know the truth. You weren't a murder victim. You killed yourself, adding more red to your body. I see the lights, the chalk outline on the ground. Your body is still there, your dark hair matted with drying blood. Your pale skin is ghostly white, and your red dress is dark with sticky, wet blood and dirt. I don't want to see you like this.
Why did it end this way?
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I had a chilling feeling while reading. XD
Thanks for the lovely comment, and yeah, sometimes the warnings put people off, but I wouldn't want to leave them out and have someone read it when they weren't comfortable with a certain theme, you know? Thank you <3
