Thread:InsaneAsylum/@comment-209.53.156.14-20140409201342

Scarlet

A Short Story for Insa





Blood has a strange color. It’s dark, not as black as liquid ink but not quite crimson or scarlet. The body of the boy in front of me was drenched in this color. His lips were half parted in an eternal silent scream, his eyes strained in distilled horror. He was sprawled on the ground awkwardly, head thrown far back, making his neck appear more fragile than ever. His arms were entangled like the limbs of a puppet, curved at peculiar angles. He lay there unmoving on the concrete, a deafening silence, a swirl of scarlet. The overall effect was slightly morbid and incredibly elegant. I stood there dazed, just staring at the victim. The boy I murdered.

There was something in my hand. It wasn’t a shotgun, or a dagger, or even a shard of glass. I unfurled my fingers, and in my palm I found a single letter. A love letter, written for me, signed by the boy, now lying cold and dead at my feet. How desperate was he? How much did I mean to him?  The pitying scowl on my face turned into a twisted smile. Without reading the contents of the letter, I took out the cigarette lighter from my coat, flicking it open with a lazy, practiced gesture. The paper burned, catching fire, charring black, and within seconds, all that was left was a pile of sparkling black crystals, silt as fine as ash. I glanced around the street but it was dark, skeleton elm-trees leaning against the star filled sky— beauty at the edge of darkness. Only a crisp breeze blew through, rustling the leaves in the gutter. The night was resonating, hollow, empty. Memories had begun to creep forward from hidden corners of my mind. Neverending regret. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness. Sorrows I thought long forgotten mingled with still-fresh wounds.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:'TimesNewRoman';color:#000000;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">For a moment, as I stood in the silence, I think he is still alive, breathing, glowing, smiling, laughing, running his fingers through my hair. My tears tasted bitter in my mouth, the saltwater choking my throat. They thought I was crying of regret, crying of vengeance, and anger. But I was crying of truth. I was crying of shame, fear, and innocence. I had kept my eyes fixated on the bloodstained concrete. Then I let go, releasing the handful of ashes, the remnants of his love, into the wind forever.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:'TimesNewRoman';font-size:15px;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:22px;">The cold chill of that autumn night still haunts me to this day. <span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:'TimesNewRoman';font-size:15px;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:22px;">I can still feel the way my breath slid in and out of my lungs in thin, long quivers. I can still hear the serene veil of silence descend upon me. I can still remember. Everything. Because the strange scarlet color can never be forgotten. <ac_metadata title="I hope you like it~"> </ac_metadata>