A home is like a heart, with chambers and chasms, pumping the living around. That's what they told us this was, a home. My mother always said red was an angry color. "Red's got no place in a home," she would say when my father brought her red roses. She said flowers should be purple and white, pink and yellow, not red. Red was the color of my sister's blood, the color my father saw in his blind rage, the color of my mother's eyes that last night. And red was the color of my room. I think what blood and sins this red paint covered.
I used to read the story of the woman who went insane looking at yellow wallpaper, who felt trapped behind bars with the women who lived in walls. I thought, "How could anyone hate the color yellow?" It's such a lovely color. There's no yellow here. But I hate red. It's on the walls, on the bed, on the pillows, on the curtains. Red, red, red.
Red.
And I wonder, if you can go deranged looking at yellow wallpaper, what happens if you're already insane and looking at red?
YOU ARE READING
The Girl at the Crimson Asylum
Mystery / ThrillerAsk no questions and you'll be told no lies. But how do you find out the truth without asking questions? And the more you find out, maybe the less you really know. In 1962, the Crimson Asylum was to go under renovation. Due to some unforseen circum...
