A Red World

I look up at the sound of a knock. What the heck? A blood-stained figure clutches my windowsill. Her lips form a single word. Please. Tears slip down her face, following the trail of blood down her face.

I open the window mostly out of shock. Kyla pulls herself through the window and collapses into a heap. Fear lurks behind her, pinching her neck with his three, long claws. I can see his shadow against the wall -- a body of black oil, dripping off its lanky body and onto the floor. I drag Kyla to the couch, hoping the trail of blood isn't permanent. She looks up at me hesitantly.

***

"Hey, Finn," I croak.

He stands still, shock written on his face. He stands motionless, watching me. I take a rag off the floor and begin dabbing my wounds. Pain creeps through my body. I pinch my lips together as not to scream. Involuntary tears follow lines of blood. I refuse to look up.

"Why?" is all Finn can manage.

I don't look up, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

"Gosh no," he says in disbelief, taking a step back, "It didn't happen again, did it?"

I risk a glance up again. Another tear runs down my face. Why does Finn know more about my life than my friends?

Blood drips down my face. Blood so red you would think it glows. Red. Red like the fire in which my mother burned. Red like the locked door my mother banged on until she died. Red like my memories. Red.

People yell. Voices wrap around me like a net. I feel it tighten around me, choking me. People laugh and shove each other around. The bar is full. Beer is spilt over poker games and jokes. I knew I would find him here. He spends most of his time here and on the couch, drunk. When my dad notices me, I can see the anger flush his face. He grabs the nearest bottle, throwing it at me. It shatters against my skull. I feel my knees give way. Pain inflates my body. Tears prick my eyes. His voice dominates the bar. He screams at me, voice raw and shapes like the glass shards around me. He begins throwing cups at me. Blood begins to drip off of me, staining the wooden floors.

"What do you want?" he hollers at me, followed by a series of swearing, "I told you, I'm not drunk! I can get home you little..."

I try to push away the words that follow. A woman tries to interfere, but my dad whirls around and punches her in the face.

"She's my daughter, vixen! Mine! I can do what I want!" then to me, "Why are you here? I hate you!"

His breath smells of beer and cigarettes. A man gets up and begins to try and help the fallen woman. I dodge another whiskey bottle, tosing my father's wallet on the bar counter before running out of the building.

"Get out of here! You stupid mistake! Why did I ever have a child?"

A trail of bottles and glasses follow me, raining out of the doorway. A glass hits the back of my head and I collapse. The door closes again and I pull myself up from the ground. That's when I see Finn. He stands on the other side of the street, still as stone. Judging from his expression, he saw the whole scene through the bar window. He's the only person in sight. He hesitates before making his way towards me. He crouches down beside me.

"Need any help?" he asks softly.

"Why would I need help? I know where I live," I hiss, trying to ignore the blood gathering around me, dripping down my legs.

I'm thankful, really, I am. But I was afraid of what he might do to me. I'm afraid Finn might hit me or begin swearing. It's a stupid thought. Finn has always been rather quiet, but... I don't know. The truth is, I've always been afraid of people. I never ask my teachers for help or ask questions.

I begin to limp away, tears running down my face. I know he saw. He stays in the street, watching me pull myself away. Never again did he mention my family. I refused to speak to him again. Not that he tried.

Finn hesitates for a moment before asking.

"Why did you come to my place. Why here?"

I look up.

"You're the only person who knows that my dad, uh..." I whisper, voice trailing off.

Pause.

"Oh."

***

I am alone. The cemetery is empty. Other than me. I stand in the rain, letting it pour over me. It washes all of the pain, hatred and fear. I can feel it dripping off my body and twirling into the mini streams around my feet. My scared feet. Over the years, I went from a small, kind girl, to an introverted one, desperate to wear pants and long sleeves whenever I can. Desperate to hide my scars. Desperate to hide my past. Now, as I stand over his grave, I realize I loved him. I loved my dad, no matter how mean or drunk he might be. I love him because he's my dad. I love him. I loved him. But now it's too late. I never tried to show him. I feel the letter in my fist. His last words to me. I am sorry. I don't know if he ever loved me, but he was sorry. Those were the kindest words he had ever said to me. That he really was sorry. Maybe he did love me. Maybe. The one time I wish I could see my dad, wish I could try one last time, I can't. I feel the raindrops pelting against my skin, plastering my hair against my face.

"I'm sorry. I -- I love you."

I set a rose next to the dull, gray tombstone. A rose so red you'd think it glows. Red. Red like the fire in which my mother burned. Red like the light in my father's eyes. Red like the locked door, to which my mother pounded until there was nothing left. Red like his favourite hoodie. Red like my memories. Red.

The world is cruel. A red world