C O L O R S

S C A R L E T

The faintest glow of ember free falls as the dark smoke engulfs the entire room. Kris feels suffocated but he's decided to just cower on one corner, knees bent to his face as he watches the flames devour everything that reminds him of his family; that reminds him of who he is; that reminds him of him.

Posters and wallpapers have been torn one by one only to be burnt into ashes. The windows and glasses on the photo frames have been broken into bits because of too much heat on the atmosphere. Any minute now, the ceiling will collapse and crush everything underneath, including Kris who has his eyes on the bed across from him---where he is shooting glares at him.

His aura is strange---dangerously strange. He is decapitating Kris just by shooting deadly glares with the color that complements the fire. Maybe it's not just a normal type of fire that makes blackened and charred wood remains. Maybe it's the incipient one that's coming from the inside---from the heart who wants revenge.

Kris has never seen a fire like that before. The color of it, he thinks, is not red or green or orange with hints of yellow. It is a fiery one, stronger, and much diabolic.

He covers his face as the scarlet flame grows bigger and rises to the sky, just like how his laughter reverberates through the vastness of the night, before the roof turns to ruins.

"NO!" Kris jolts from his bed, bathing in sweat and bodies trembling in rhythm with the wild beating of his heart. The door instantly opens in a hurry as Kent comes to his son's aid, hoping to provide at least a little bit of comfort. He pulls Kris' bewildered physique to his chest and tries to pacify his ragged breathing.

Kris is having a panic attack, no doubt. He gets it when talking too much, but most nights; he gets it from nightmares, those really bad ones. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it," he keeps on saying, his voice muffled by his father's shirt.

"It's okay, son. It's okay," Kent assures because he thinks that Kris won't try to do it again. What he doesn't know is that the suicide topic is not what Kris is sorry for. It's darker, more twisted, and more concealed.

It takes a while before Kris composes himself, his sobs now barely heard, and pulls away from his father's arms. All of a sudden he feels constrained by Kent's presence. All of a sudden he wants to be alone, again.

"Sorry for breaking down on you," he says and Kent just nods before he gets out of bed. He's familiar with times like that. He knows that when silence already fills the air and Kris speaks nothing but of few and brief words, he is driving them away. And to say that he is disappointed is an understatement, but he still let Kris be alone.

"I just want us to be okay," he says before finally closing the door, and creating wider gaps between him and his son once again.

Kris seems to spend a little more time learning about the stuff inside his locker the next day. If not hate letters, dead squirrels or leftovers will be in it every single time he will take a visit. But like any other bunch of usual things, he's used to it. It's just the unfamiliar Polaroid photo of him and his brother that catches his attention.

"Who left this here?" he asks himself, really lost in the moment. It's one of their shots the last time they have gone to the beach, where they are both smiling genuinely, hands over the shoulders of each other, skins thin and exposed to the by-the-sea environment.

"Did you like it?" Kris drops the photo and hits his head on the metal door upon the attempt of catching it, startled by the dominant voice behind him. Spinning around, he feels cold shivers run through his spine as his face drains from blood, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.