Colors Of Me: A Rainbow Of Drabbles

Red

All he saw most of the time was red. Red was anger. Red was passion, red was love. Red was the anger at his father, coming home drunk again. Red was the way he loved his mother, standing up for him time and time again. Red was not having to pretend he was alright because no one cared anymore. Red was finally being the bigger, stronger one in a fight. Red was power. Red was not being helpless in the face of trouble anymore. Red was becoming that trouble. Red was the wretchedness of him, knowing of the pain, and still hitting. Red was fire. It was throwing another failed test on the pyre. It was the dirty taste of cigars in his mouth, the smoke flaming in his lungs. Red was bellowing at another, watching them flinch. Red was him, and he was red. He was red, so he would never have to be blue and purple and bruised anymore. Red meant surviving. Red was being alive.