[TakeMeBreakMe2]

Synopsis: If it had not been red, it might have been beautiful.

Red

Red.

That's all she could see.

It was splattered across her mind like paint upon canvas. Like poison it seeped into her thoughts and tore apart her dreams until she awoke. Her breaths were short and quick, each one making her heart beat just a little bit faster. She ripped off the silk sheets and stumbled to her feet. Prodding her way across the room, she splashed her face with cold water, never once daring to touch a light switch. She'd rather him stay asleep; in fact, she'd rather he just never wake up.

She recalled his kiss feeling of nothing but tiny needles as she reached up to wipe the poison from her lips. His fingers had felt like ice, freezing her body limb by limb until she could no longer move, let alone run. She had wanted nothing more than to flee the scene and leave his lies behind her, but as she felt his eyes bore into her bare flesh, she was trapped. The golden ring on her left hand now felt more like an iron chain than the gift she had once so openly accepted. Her skin now burned where his fingertips had once lingered and her heart ached from the painful images that consumed her thoughts.

That's all she could see as she closed her eyes to wipe the water from her cheeks. A cool mixture of salty tears and tap water trickled from her chin, and she dared not lift her eyes to the mirror. She grabbed the terrycloth robe from the hook and wrapped it tightly around her body, as if the thin material would protect her from all the things she feared. She gripped the countertop tightly, as if trying to save herself from falling into the same routine all over again, but eventually she let herself slip and exited the bathroom.

The light from the hall illuminated into the master bedroom, where he slept like a king in his throne. Like Henry VIII, he had beheaded her time after time, each time his power growing with the previous drop of the guillotine. She watched him sleep, and all the while she wanted nothing more than to kill him. To take a knife and plunge it deep into his heart, his blood staining the sheets that covered the bed they shared together. Or to watch him struggle helplessly in the sea, each breath he took filling his lungs more and more with the black water. Or to slip only a few drops of poison in his ritual vodka that he drank every night to help him forget his miserable life, and then he would never again have to wake up to another day.

She leaned up against the wall, and shut up his figure behind the closed doors. She slammed her head back and slumped down to the floor. Reaching her hand up to her neck, she gripped the white gold cross tightly in her fist. The tears spilled from her green eyes as she prayed. She prayed for him to change. She prayed for her escape. She prayed for God to save her, to take her way, and to protect her. She squeezed the cross tightly in her palm until the elegantly carved edges dug into her flesh, and then dropped it once again.

God never listened.

Self pity wasn't a game she played often, but then again neither was adultery. She walked over to the pile of clothes that littered the hallway floor. She gently bent down and picked up a white silk shirt from the floor and clenched it tightly in her fists, breathing in its soft scents. Her nose tingled with smells of ginger and jasmine, heavenly aromas of expensive perfumes, perfumes that her husband had never graced her with. The scent was so foreign to her, and yet it was a constant reoccurrence that stained her husband's clothes and filled his Bentley.

On the neatly pressed white collar was a smudge of bright red lipstick, a color that she would never have dared to wear. She tucked her long auburn hair behind her ears and pressed her fingers on the smudge, the color staining the tips like blood.

Red.

The lipstick. The lone pair of panties she had found in his pocket. The small napkin containing an elegantly written phone number tucked inside his briefcase. All red. She hated the color and the things it insinuated. Lust and adultery were all that came to mind, and she knew that things would never change.

But at the moment, adultery was the least of her problems.

She dropped the lust stained shirt in the hamper, knowing that later she would wash away the smell of ginger and the blood red stain with her own hands. Day after day she watched the bloody water swirl down the drain as the lipstick lifted from the silk, but it would never really go away. It was still dark out as she walked silently down the stairs, and she knew there was still an hour before the sun would rise and wash away the events of the night before. She had a feeling, though, that these memories would never die.

She walked into the kitchen and flicked on the over head light. A dull bulb lit the room just enough so she could see where she walked, for she wanted to avoid the crimson puddles that were scattered across her tile floor. The red pools reflected the light onto the ceiling, littering the entire room with bursts of cherry colored specks. It would have been beautiful if the stains on her floor hadn't been blood.

Red.

The entire room was red. The floor, the walls, the lights, the memories, the dreams, and especially the nightmares. She looked to the refrigerator and noticed the red streaks painted upon the door as if done with a paintbrush.

BAM!

She recalled the hard thud of a body being thrown against it the night before. The soft whimper that was barely audible as the stainless steel knife clattered in the sink. Stainless, hardly. Crimson blood still lay streaked across the blade, even as the faucet gently let water flow across its surface. The phone hung limply on the floor, its cord having been roughly cut in two. A delicate handprint stained the door, and if the color had not been red, it might have been beautiful.

Somehow the screams from the night before still seemed to echo in the downstairs floor of her once beautiful home. They were soft, but they still rang in her head as she pressed her hands over her ears. They could not be drowned out. The fight had been passionate, words flying in every direction, timed out perfectly as if it had been rehearsed. Like a play, the two bodies had almost danced across the floor, but in the end one did not stand to take its final bow. The patterns on the floor marked their steps, and the thick red trail led directly to the kitchen closet.

It was like a room full of abstract art and form, each streak blending gently into the next as if purposely done. If everything had not all been red, it could have been beautiful.

She already knew what was in the closet. She already knew the tragic story of the night before. She had heard it. She had seen it. She had tasted it. She had felt it. There was no denying what lay behind this beautiful wooden door. It was something beautiful. Something she saw everyday as she looked into the mirror and cried.

She carefully turned the knob and pulled the door open just enough to light the small area inside. Gently slumped in the corner was a petite body of a woman no more than the age of twenty-five. Her green eyes were softly clouded over, and her auburn hair was sticky, but still clung beautifully to her neck. Her delicate hands lay lifeless on the floor surrounded in a pool of blood. Around her neck gently lay a beautiful white gold cross, with elegantly carved edges.

She looked in on the body and touched her cheek softly. She seemed peaceful, and with good reason. She had finally escaped all the fights, the yelling, the torture, the pain, and everything he had put her through. The color red which the girl in the closet had hated so much was not a color that would often be seen in heaven.

How unfair it seemed that the mistress lived, while the wife died. How unfair it seemed that the husband slept in his bed, while the wife lay in the closet. Unfair as it all seemed, it was doomed upon her the day she said, "I do." Her entire marriage had been nothing after those five long years, but after all that time there had been one thing he had honored. He hadn't been lying when he said "'til death do us part."

[Ferris]

Wow!

Nice touch, really interesting read, even at this time of night. I'm not normally one to post and then go, so i scanned through your piece another few times and found only this one thing. I hope its some help to you!

You say:

She walked over to the pile of clothes that littered the hallway floor. She gently bent down and picked up a white silk shirt from the floor and clenched it tightly in her fists - I think that you should change one of these words to something else, otherwise the repetition ruins that paragraph.

Other than that, I think you could perhaps go into a little more detail regarding the cross, maybe take a minute to mention how it feels, perhaps offering a clue to her state of spiritual being? I'm not sure, but have a think.

Hope I've been some help!

Ferris

[Venomous Vixen]

Incredible story, the title hooked me as red is a favorite color of mine but it was nice to see how others may view the color. Great twists throughout, you kept me guessing.

God never listened.

how so many people feel... very nice touch there. Very bittersweet tale of eternal freedom.

[Vail]

Well, I'll be. This was awesome. You really nailed this short story on the head. I agree with Bri (Venomous Vixen) as to what my favorite part of the story was. But I love how you have her detatched from herself throughout the whole story until the end.

I am not one for just throwing all praise at a work, but this was ridiculously well-done. You had awesome descriptions throughout, my favorite being the cold water running down her face, I literally could see it. You definitely impressed me with this work, I sincerely look forward to your presence on the site. Thanks for sharing.

['Ginnis]

So elegantly compiled! I was drawn in from the beginning, your style was remarkable and interesting. The twist at the end was a deep enough shocker the make me really appreciate this piece. Nice work.

[Jon%]

This is a well written story. The descriptions were vivid and the language flowed very smoothly. It nice to see such a polished piece on the site. My only gripe comes from the fact that the whole thing seems a bit cliche and overdone. Lover's triangle, quarrel, death. The only question, who lives and who dies. The problem, you have a one in three chance of getting it right. So my only advice to you is keep writing!! You've got skills Just try to come up with something a little more original.

[DarkPower]

hm quite brilliant really, well written. I do like how you used the detached character until the end and the colour red. Colour is often very effective when trying to get a message across.

[paintedbynumber]

Wow... That was amazing. I have often wanted to write a story that had to do with color... something like that but I never really got inspiration for it. I do agree with Johnny Tall above me that it would make it so much more amazing if you had a completely original plot so that people would remember it forever. Keep writing it really is good.

[Gurdit]

I liked it a lot.

The only 2 things I had a problem with are:

1. the use of the word "floor" twice in 2 sentences. It's not technically wrong, but another word would have done the job much better.

2. the description of the kitchen -- Red.

The entire room was red. The floor, the walls, the lights, the memories, the dreams, and especially the nightmares. She looked to the refrigerator and noticed the red streaks painted upon the door as if done with a paintbrush.
Maybe it's just me, but it's all just too red for me. The image I got was a room that was really completely red, as if it were painted with red paint, had red lights, a red floor, etc. Instead if you could describe something like the walls being streaked with red or something... I know this is implied, but I just think it's not brought out immediately in that sentence.

[RENA HANDS]

Her breaths were short and quick; each one making her heart beat just a little bit faster.

(A possible rewrite of the comma to a semicolon.)

Vodka

does not need capitalization?

Fantastic! Honestly a superb story.

[adrianhayter]

Very good!

A couple of tiny problems -

The light from the hall illuminated into the master bedroom, where he slept like a king in his throne. Like Henry VIII, he had beheaded her time after time, each time his power growing with the previous drop of the guillotine.

Henry used an axe except with Anne Boleyn (sp?) on whom he used a sword. Guillotine is French.

BAM!

This is bothersome. It seems out of place.

Stainless, hardly. Crimson blood still lay streaked across the blade, even as the faucet gently let water flow across its surface.

Interesting observation. I would rewrite it to be more active.

How unfair it seemed that the mistress lived, while the wife died. How unfair it seemed that the husband slept in his bed, while the wife lay in the closet. Unfair as it all seemed, it was doomed upon her the day she said, "I do." Her entire marriage had been nothing after those five long years, but after all that time there had been one thing he had honored. He hadn't been lying when he said "'til death do us part."

This ties it all together which is probably not a good idea. Reworking the front with some clues might be better.

She already knew what was in the closet. She already knew the tragic story of the night before. She had heard it. She had seen it. She had tasted it. She had felt it. There was no denying what lay behind this beautiful wooden door. It was something beautiful. Something she saw everyday as she looked into the mirror and cried.

This helps

Trusting your reader is important - I've been trying to get this through my head for some time. In a perfect world, a few bread crumbs are all that's needed. Signposts are overkill.

Good story.
Adrian

[Ambrose]

You tend to overwrite. A couple examples:

His fingers had felt like ice, freezing her body limb by limb until she could no longer move, let alone run

By saying she cannot move, it is implied that she cannot run.

The golden ring on her left hand now felt more like an iron chain than the gift she had once so openly accepted.

It is clear that the golden ring is a wedding ring. The reader can surmise that she was glad to receive it at the time without you telling us.

The light from the hall illuminated into the master bedroom, where he slept like a king in his throne. Like Henry VIII, he had beheaded her time after time, each time his power growing with the previous drop of the guillotine. She watched him sleep, and all the while she wanted nothing more than to kill him.

Just because he is the boss of her does not mean you can liken him to a king. Plenty of unimportant people have been the bosses of other people.

Or to slip only a few drops of poison in his ritual vodka that he drank every night to help him forget his miserable life, and then he would never again have to wake up to another day.

Using the word ritual implies that he drinks it often. And why is his life miserable? He gets to cheat on his wife without apparent repercussion... how does that make his life miserable?

The lipstick. The lone pair of panties she had found in his pocket. The small napkin containing an elegantly written phone number tucked inside his briefcase. All red. She hated the color and the things it insinuated. Lust and adultery were all that came to mind, and she knew that things would never change.

This actually starts out a pretty good paragraph. Where you go wrong is the sentence before last. It is obvious what these things mean so theres really no need to mention that they brought to her mind lust and adultery. Give the reader some credit in knowing that he or she will be able to deduce that.

The entire room was red. The floor, the walls, the lights, the memories, the dreams, and especially the nightmares. She looked to the refrigerator and noticed the red streaks painted upon the door as if done with a paintbrush.

Trying to make everything red to intensify her emotional state seems melodramatic and painfully unrealistic.

My biggest complaint is with the ending:

She carefully turned the knob and pulled the door open just enough to light the small area inside. Gently slumped in the corner was a petite body of a woman no more than the age of twenty-five. Her green eyes were softly clouded over, and her auburn hair was sticky, but still clung beautifully to her neck. Her delicate hands lay lifeless on the floor surrounded in a pool of blood. Around her neck gently lay a beautiful white gold cross, with elegantly carved edges.

The story makes it seem like the wife killed her husband out of hate and jealously of him cheating. And then you have him kill her... this does not make much sense. Why would he kill her? If he did not love her anymore, why would he take the risk to kill her when he could just divorce her? The story would seem much more plausible if she killed him.

[A.V.H]

Yeah...I don't like the colour red either. Nice story.