Colors
He saw more colors each day and never realized their true meaning. Green was green, black was black, blue was blue, and red…. That was the color of her hair. Red: it was the color of her death, and the end of his happiness. It used to be so beautiful.
XX
She looked so perfect under the moonlight.
His eyes were blurred with tears of happiness and love, but he still saw her glowing. He would see it until the very end. The brilliant white of the moon gave shadows of a perfect black on her bones, giving her that angel feel that he had felt with her his whole life.
When she looked at him, he could do no more than gasp. How could she be so perfectly his? He couldn't think of why he ever deserved this girl.
He loved green that night. Last night, he had loved red. Her eyes were emerald gems of the deepest, most sultry green. It gave him shivers of anticipation just to know that she would soon turn her head and meet his eyes; how stupid he must look in the glow of them.
"Robin…," she whispered.
He lifted his hand, not caring what she meant, but pulling her close and kissing her pink lips. They were chapped and dry, but they were soon soft and wet.
"I love you," he whispered against her ear. He could feel her shivers of delight.
His love was not a candle in the night; it was a whole town on fire. The people might scream and protest and die, but the town burned and burned. He felt nothing but the burn of the fire, and no matter how horribly it hurt, he would never put it out.
XX
He loved purple the best. It was the color of that beautiful dress she always wore, the one with the sparkles of silver and soft satin laces. Under it he knew nothing but beauty. That dress was his favorite.
Yellow was a wonderful color in summer. She wore a soft yellow dress, just perfect enough to be allowed on her figure. It paid her shame, though; no clothes of any kind would be beautiful enough to be good enough for her.
Except pink. Pink was his favorite. On hot and dry days on the beach, she wore little pink, but just enough to be called perfect. She seemed to glow when she wore that two-piece; perfect in every aspect of skin and clothes.
No matter what, at the top of his list would always be her alone: red, green and ivory. Crimson beauty was his word for her river of hair, because it was nothing but purely her. Emerald orbs were her eyes, and he loved them with every ounce of his body. Ivory gold was the color of her warm skin made of silk. Every part of her was on fire, and every part of her kept his town burning.
XX
He felt the agonizing pain before he heard the shot. He had not been hurt at all; the bullet had gone off far away from him. But a part of his body could feel the gushing wind, the deep and rooted pain, and the slow and fading throb of a heart that was not his own.
"STARFIRE!!!"
Everything went in slow motion. There she was, on the ground, her perfection still making his stomach lurch with pain. And there was the bullet hole, right in her chest, a filthy addition to her body like he had never seen before.
He was sobbing on her chest of blood. "Star, please don't go! God, I love you so much, I can't live without you! Please, baby, I'm sorry! God, I'm sorry! PLEASE!!!"
Somewhere inside he knew there was no hope for her. But a part of him was fighting that truth like he would a savage killer; the truth needed to die.
When she died he could think of nothing but how horrible colors were. He hated them with every ounce of his being, every part of his soul. They were horrible and greedy things, full of hate and passion.
Her eyes were like painted backdrops of green; you could see no glow in them, no life or passion. They were simply just green: dull and lifeless.
Her skin was as cold as ice. It was still soft, still flawless, but it was gray and harsh. There was no part of it that spelled out l.i.f.e. like it usually did. It was dry, just like her lips.
Red was a color he would remember for the rest of his life. It was the color he gave her, the only color he could see when he thought of her. How could he see anything else?
All around her, draining the very life from her chest, was a pool of never-ending crimson blood. It was the only thing that night that was full of life.
Her hair was a harsh and lavish thing once. Now it paled in comparison to the beating drum of her blood. It was still hers; he still loved it. But it meant death, and that was all he would ever remember about her.
Fire was red, too, and his town of fire was suddenly gone, leaving it charred and burned black.