Christine

Painted in Crimson

Painted in Crimson

When you’re dying you don’t really think about the dying part, but you think back on your life and what you could have done differently. I was born to a mother who gave up her modelling career to have me, only to abandon me when I didn’t have the features she wanted. She wanted a child to exploit and raise to her standards, to live vicariously through me; she had a sperm donor chosen with blonde hair and blue eyes, along with her blonde hair and green eyes, she expected the “perfect” baby.

I was born with brown eyes and black hair, my mother hated me. I guess it was good to be thrown away, eventually my eyesight began to deteriorate and I wore glasses or contacts all the time. I was sent to an orphanage when at the time of my 5th birthday I was adopted by a loving doctor by the name of John, with greying hair and fading blue eyes. My first time calling him “dad” was on my eighth birthday. 

The doctor was in his mid-forties he wanted nothing more than to have another child, he said I reminded him of his daughter who died along with his wife, years ago; his baby was only two and it was his and his wife’s anniversary. He bought me lots of books and sent me to a great school, he encouraged my adventurous spirit and made sure that my imagination never died. 

The summer of 2018 my father was murdered in cold blood. Some goons were brought to the hospital and when one of them died during a surgery my father was preforming they came back and killed him and any other doctors and nurses in that hospital, they bombed the whole building. I was 18 at the time of his death, I was sleeping peacefully when I felt a searing pain in my chest and eyes. 

John panicked, refused to let his daughter live alone. He had to give her his gift. As the explosion ripped through his body, tearing his flesh and searing his bones, he gripped to his soul and sent out the Sight. He would see her again, just not sure how long. Death grinned deeply, “hello old friend”, he let Death take him away from the living, a piece of him still holding on. 

I remember screaming in agony and suddenly the pain had stopped. I remember the room looked grey, like all the colour was ripped from the space I was in. I can still feel the fear and I still remember seeing my father at the foot of the bed covering in blood. I was so completely terrified, but that was the day my adventure began.