Red Is Creative

Warning: Dark themes, viewer discretion is advised.

Every second is a step away from tragedy.

A dull thud reverberated through my head as I watch my brother's eyes widened for a second before melding into a crunch of pain, then crying. A four year old should not be crying in such pain in my eight year old mind, but I didn't find myself to care at the moment. The sound of the television was almost close to none, despite it being the loudest as we watched a cartoon show.

My mother was cooking and mixing vegetables by the kitchen and I was standing before my brother, wary of the small amount of blood leaking from his head. His white shirt had stains of chocolate from the drink, while the chair he was once sitting in, while he slowly rock himself back and forth had fallen into the ground with him. I still hadn't reacted, I didn't know what prompted me to just observe how the red color stuck to the white tile and made a beautiful color.

After a handful of seconds, my brother began to wail. It wasn't sniffling or asking for anything. It was a cry of discomfort, he wasn't able to stand, I didn't expect him to. But I was eight, and all I could do was interestingly watch my brother's blood flow through the floor. I didn't scream, I didn't shout for my mom.

But she came running to the living room anyways. Maybe it was maternal instinct, a cry or laugh of their children can be felt instantaneously. It was terrifying, but I wasn't able to take full grasp of it. My mom wasn't wearing sandals, she was just in her white shorts and red spaghetti strap blouse, but she managed to lift my brother up, yelled at me to get out of the way, open the door clumsily and ran to the nearest hospital away.

The nearest hospital was about two or three streets away, but I stood there, looking at the blood, it was nasty. I didn't think why did I even like it in the beginning, but it was the time something opened, like a door, inside my mind. I felt a slight shiver, looked back at the blood and frowned.

I grabbed a wet rag and cleaned it off.

The first time I realized what changed was three years later, I was already eleven, fifth grade. I had disliked a student teacher for I think she was too "by the book", she didn't like giving children a chance to give out their creativity. Her mentor, however, always liked knowing our opinions. She always thinks that a child's mind is the most complicated thing of all, so complicated that they can find simple solutions to complex problems.

Oneday, around december, a little before Christmas partys and exchange gifts, she made us do something.

Write what you think of the class.

It wasn't anything incriminating, there was an oath that my teacher did that it would only be for her eyes, but I never believed it. She must've been telling us on other teachers, not mentioning our names but the other teachers must've gotten it, it was their secret language.

But there I was, writing that I hated how the projects seemed so dull, too oriented, no freedom, no creativity. It took me a good number of three pages of my notebook, not back to back.

I didn't know that she actually read it, but for the next week, she made us do a silly scrapbook where we would write our memories, childhood everything, and our friends.

And I found myself staring at a plain pink scrapbook, with puffy stickers by the side, crayons and small pictures of my families in front of me, a sharp pair of scissors was placed on top of the colored papers with a cutter on its side. My father was beside me, in case I need help with the cutter, but he was reading a book.

I started putting it together, using a small amount of glue and sticking stickers so it would seem more creative. I wrote about the dates I could remember, the feelings and words I could recall. I lost myself into writing the words.

I started to spill put my heart, a teacher that taught me how to read, my mom who loved my drawings, the time I almost drowned, when my father started going home a lot less, a friend I lost to an accident, an old lady that tells me stories, I had written that she got run over by a truck. Everything started from innocent to grosteque, then grosteque to a horrible nightmare.

I began telling more and more about darkness, of how I think happiness has its consequences, every single happy moment has its own bad karma that is waiting to strike up to you at the right simple moment. I started spilling more at how I was happy to have a birthday cake, then I remember that I am once step closer to dying, that maybe when I step the cracks in the tiles, I'll slip and faint, maybe die.

And the memory swooped pass me.

It was a blink of second, my mother didn't even realize I stopped moving. My father kept on reading a book by my side and my brother was sleeping by my mom quietly. In that blink of a second, I remembered.

I saw my brother laying of the white tile, blood oozing from his head, his whimper and sad cries, the dull thud echoed inside my head.

And I didn't realize what I was even doing.

I felt as if something surge through me, my hand itched to touch the red color, to make it seem like it was the blood my brother had. I slowly looked up to my father, he was the nearer one after all.

But at that time, he had his head buried on a Stephen King book, he was too focused om the story and I was so focused on him that I didn't realize, I was already holding the sharp cutter, and my dad wasn't looking at me.

I looked back at the red paint, and thought, it didn't seem bloody enough. I looked over to my wrist and had a second thought, maybe I can use my own kind of red.

It was a small cut. A slow, small cut on my index finger, I watched the blood drip from my finger then to the brown pages of the scrapbook, slowly ooze its way to the pages, the pictures, the words, the stickers.

It was red.

I didn't know how long was I watching my blood drip, but I did feel my father grab my hand, and hurried me to wash it, then he doused a hot burning alcohol on my finger, I didn't cry.

I watched the liquid mix with my blood in fascination.

My father looked at me worriedly and told me to stop playing with the cutter, and if it had to happen, there will be no more sharp things near me.

I thought he was a paranoid.

I looked down at my work, and frowned once more. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a wet rag, then wiped the remaining blood off.

For three days, my father watched me like a hawk, I want to go to the kitchen, he would insist on going with me, I wanna sharpen my pencils, he would insist on doing it. I realized he was doing it purposefully to get me off of touching sharp things. I didn't like it one bit, in fact, it prompted me to steal a small amount of money and go out of the house, then to the small sari-sari store.

I thought of buying a pair of scissors, but as I looked at the cases, where the scissors was supposed to be placed on, I did see it there, but there was something else.

I read it slowly, "Ray-zor."

The owner looked at me with eyebrows raised.

"How old are you?"

I gave her a small glare and replied.

"It's for my mum."

A lie for what I want was worth it.

Cause I did get it. The razor.

I didn't know why I felt so happy, relieved, even. I clutched the small razor on my hands and smiled.

I can't wait to get started on my work.

The second time I realized that seeing my brother with the blood and all changed me was a cold day in the third week of december, I was finishing my work up in the library. Nobody liked going to the library at five in the afternoon, it was said to have ghosts and hunted by some weird grouchy librarian that I couldn't care less.

I slowly let the blood trickle down the pages, the razor seemed to make my fingers tickle a bit and I found myself tasting the coppery taste of blood. It wasn't delicious or anything, but I found myself still entranced by it. The thought of blood on the pages made me happy. It was as if I was letting a piece of myself in the pages, who else in the world would have my blood but me? It was like writing, I left my very own mark on the pages.

Creative, huh?

My obsession with blood didn't end with that, sometimes I would get myself purposefully wounded, try to trip to just see blood on me. I loved wearing red, preferably dark ones and bright sometimes, any red to be honest. I started to write with red crayons, all I want was red.

The third time I realized realized that I was changed was when the student teacher was the one who collected the projects. I saw her give me stink eye that time, but maybe I was too innocent to realize it was. Or maybe I ignored it at that time. I handed out the pink scrapbook, remembering that I painted red all over it, mixed with droplets of my blood, I wrote with a sliver pen, it reminded me of the razor, and I liked it that way. She didn't give it a double take, and smiled on another student.

I almost imagined her slipping the red floor and cracking her head open, but decided against it. Red against red didn't seem so good as white seemed with it.

Christmas break passed by with me loving the red colors all over the place, Santa's clothing is so red, the socks by the fireplace, the red sweater I wore, the red hats. It was the time I realized that I did change. That it can be terrifying, scary, even.

And I didn't mind.

I like change, I love it. And I embraced my obsession with it. I may grow out of it, I may not, i didn't particularly care that time.

But I was reminded to care when I returned to school.

It hit me like a truck when I was suddenly called to stay by my teacher, she didn't give me my scrapbook back, I didn't really want it that time.

I have a lot of blood.

I did stay after class, not because I want to, but because I didn't want to put up a fight. I don't want to draw more attention to "Mary the Freak", or how my classmates call me.

I was sitting in the front, looking at my teacher with the look I hoped could pass for innocent and she did believe it for a bit, before confronting me.

"I have been told that your work is a little... Unconventional."

I would've called it twisted, but she's the english teacher, not me. I nodded and asked if she doesn't understand a particular word, or a memory. I was shocked when she brought the scrapbook down and walked out of the classroom.

Well, that was entertaining.

I almost wanted to laugh that time. But I was alone, and it was too serious to actually laugh. That, or the fact that my student teacher was still staring at me with what I thought of as judging my existence and whole being.

She slowly made her way to the teacher's table and grabbed my scrapbook. She took a plastic chair and sat beside me, she flipped over to one page.

"You said she got run over by a car?"

I nodded, telling her comfortably how I watched the woman get run over by a truck, her body thrown off like a ragdoll and her blood over the street, I called it red street since then, and made a promise to always cross by the exact spot where the blood was at.

"This... This is..."

"Creative."

I cut in, she can't seem to find a proper word. I didn't know whether she was afraid or not, maybe she thought I'm gonna grab the razor from the bottom of my bag and slash her throat if she says the wrong thing.

Maybe I would, maybe I won't.

"Yeah... Creative..."

I didn't know what to say, I can feel my head spinning and wanting to actually slash my arm and watched the red color fascinate me again. I was about to seriously consider the idea when she spoke up again.

"Mind if I keep this?"

It took me a little by surprise. I knew she hated those things, maybe she also had an obsession now. I know I wasn't one to judge, my father was a die hard of justice after all. I looked back at the picture of the old lady and smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, you can keep it."

I didn't know what prompted me to do such thing that time, but I opened my bag, dug through my stuff and grabbed the silver razor. She didn't seem surprised that I have such sharp things, or maybe she hadn't gotten a grasp of it yet.

I slowly made a cut on my thumb and left a mark on the page. I smiled at her, hiding the razor and standing up. I sucked on the trickling blood, letting the taste calm me down. As I left, I whispered.

"Creative."