Red

All she saw was red. Red in her vision. Red flowing from the deep lines on her thighs. Red coating her wrist. She saw red. Red was her favorite color. Red reminded her that she was in control. Red meant a break from her pain. Red meant freedom. Red was all she knew anymore. Red was her release.

As tears rolled down her freckled cheeks, she saw red. It helped her feel better. She laughed as the bite of metal on her skin drew lines of blood from her body. She got used to the pain, after the first few times. Now, that pain was a pleasure to her. It made her feel better. But she had to see blood. If there was no blood, she wasn't satisfied.

She used to hate blood. She used to squirm at the sight of blood after even the smallest of wounds. Now though, now blood fascinated her. Her own at least. She loved to see blood on her skin. She played with it. It was hers. She had control of how much, and when she saw that blood. It was hers. The one thing she had complete ownership of. The one thing she had complete control over.

Because you see, she lets others control her life. Where she goes, who she meets, what she says. She can't live on her own. She's too afraid of the outside world. And she can't speak out and stand up to those who control her life. Because she's a coward. A coward that deserves to die.

But she's too scared of that too. She is too much of a coward to take her own life. So instead, she turned to the color red. She felt brave when she made pretty little lines on her body. She loved watching the red substance roll down her skin. And for the smallest time, she was content. Not happy, for she was destined to never be happy. But content at that moment. Because just for these moments, she was in control.