It isn't murder if I paint your corpse red

(TW: Mental health issues, murder, obsession)

It wouldn’t be murder if I died first. If I was the one who was shouldering pain, while you were out dancing with men in sickly bars. If I was the one shooting arrows in my heart, while you swooned over cigarette breaths, and French Martini’s. If I was the one watching you over, handling your shaking legs, and mumbling speech, while you rambled about the fifth boyfriend in line; how you’ve attracted everything in him with just a glance. If I was the one who fell first, to your gullible attire, and love-sick smell. To your glass-painted face and mannequin body. If I was the one who met you there, at the Museum of Red, that housed your dirty secrets.

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The day we met, was the day I died. The way I saw you, walking through the red walls and blood floor, with a nightmare for an outfit. With silver eyes, and deep, dark hair. With blushing lipstick, and flaring makeup. The way you stopped beside me, glancing your eyes at the full red portrait. You and I both stared at the painting. Intellect fighting for dominance. Minds clashing for open. 

“Why is red so fascinating?”, you said, eyes darting back and forth.

“I’m not so sure.” 

I take out a camera, hold it towards you, and snap a memory. 

The film comes out, to reveal a nightmare standing there, eyes glowing red, a smile crawling, and a knife protruding from your abdomen.

----

We talked for hours. Singing and drinking. Laughing and screaming. Red gushed from your eyes and mouth. We took pictures and laughed some more. Objects flew. More memories. You bled. More memories. We loved each other. More memories. You stared. Less memories. I hated it. Way less memories. 

Memories, memories, memories, and memories flooded my brain. But I’m afraid of them.

Red portrait. Green eyes. Silver hair. Baby’s crying.

---

You left me alone. You left me all alone. You were red the first night I saw you, and now you’re white. Baby in hand. Husband following you. You smiled with no blushing lipstick as you played with flying fingers. As you laughed at the joke he flung at you. No more red. No more love. No more portraits. Just you, a lover, and a child. While I still stay the same. With arrows in my heart.

---

I’m crying as my head lies in my hands. You dancing with those red lips, and black dresses plays in my head. You smiling and shaking your soda plays in my head. You crying and me helping you play in my head. All those moments of desperation. To fend for yourself with my aide. It all ended when I saw you and that child. Smiling and giggling. Not knowing that we used to be a thing. That we used to grin and point, and make fun. That we use to make plans for our future. We used to love each other in backstreet allies, with songs that played for no reason. That way we used to gaze at each other like stars exploding. Killing each other instantly. So why? I kept up with you. Keeping the red flowing. Keeping you thriving. I didn’t want you to lose your way. Yet you did so anyway. From red-stoned bricks to sky-blue skies. From red-lipped love to the gray cries of another. From me and you, to you and him.

---

What a glorious day to sing. To dance and frolic around, while holding someone you love. While thinking about your lives with sugar-sweet words. We met each other at the same museum and agreed to catch up with each other. You smiled so gently like you’ve always been like that. Like you would never hurt a fly. Like you would care. I know those things were never true. That you never cared. That you never smiled. That you never wore such pleasantries like your heart on your sleeve. Yet, I love you. I’m willing to do anything for you, just to not lose you. So I’ll comply for now. I’ll talk and reminisce about things with you. But my patience is limited. Very limited. And so, please bring the red back. That red. The red I knew.

---

“You’ve grown so fine over these years!” you say with a smile.

“You as well. Never expected you to settle down.” Twiddling my thumbs in circular motions, You kept your eyes trained on me.

“Oh no he’s not permanent! I’ve been getting quite bored recently, and since his money never fails him, it’s all he has going for him right now.” Your eyes keep trailing me up and down. Like they once did. 

“Just like your younger self huh? What about the child?” We stopped at a dimly lit alley.

“I don’t care, but she is MY child, so if do divorce him, I’d take the child for sure.” you stepped closer, lipstick red, eyes red, aura red. “But you know what? You- you’ve changed.” you led me to the shadows of remembrance and embraced me. My hands snake against my back.

“I’ve been alone for so long. Can we go back to what we had?” you asked with a smile. Your arms now hung around my neck, pulling me in.

This is what I wanted for so long. The love I deserved. The love I needed no matter what you said. No matter who you were with. Yet, I was afraid to do so. In case you left. But now, you were giving me the keys to our hell in paradise. 

But, I can’t. I let you down and declined your offer. You smile, and gulp down a breath of nervousness, before asking to stay friends. Friends. Alright. That’s okay. 

“Friends it is then.” I smile. Not a real smile because that would be lying to myself.

“Friends with benefits!” you winked and walked off.

Disgusting. That red you once wore no longer suits you. That fake smile plastered on your even faker face is blood boiling. How dare you think you can come back to me. Not after you ruined my life. Why does this love continue to blossom though? Why can’t I let you go? Not ever. In life or death.

---

“Why do you think this portrait was made?” I glance at the other paintings. All a bright red.

“Let’s look at it this way. What does red symbolize?” You don't even look my way. Like the painting is the star of the show. 

“Anger? Madness? Blood?” At this point, I only could think of one more. But it wasn't worth mentioning.

“No silly! It's love! The beautiful red shows love and care.” You gesture at the painting with your hands flying around. Your eyes close, showing the glittering shadow on top. 

“The author painted this picture to show his love?” 

You chuckle lightly as you move in the direction of the artwork. Fingertips lightly graze the uneven surface, matching the rhythmic movements and swirls of the red. You can see the reflection of the arched, golden frame in the background as you force your hand through. Pieces of gold and red shoot out, filling the only space left, as you pass through. With a lingering smile on your lips. 

---

You lie there. Drowning In a pool of gorgeous red. I thought you liked red. That it was your favorite. So then, why are you not smiling? Why are you cold to the touch, just like the steel knife I carved into you? Why are you not breathing, or moving? Where is your pulse? I gave you red. The red you left behind with me to go to the man and child. But they are gone now. It's just you and me. So why can't you get up? You loved red. Did you love me? Did you? I don't know anymore to be honest. 

I took a brush and dipped it into the metallic wine. I slowly glide it along your lips, leaving a trail of vibrant red. Your eyes with that flaring red. Your cheeks with that blazing red. Your fingertips with that maroonish-red. Everything is red. Just how you like it.

I set my brush aside and take out my camera. I turn the flash on. Angle it at your lifeless body and the painting I created, and snap a memory. 

A beautiful, lulled memory of you sleeping.

After all,

It's not murder if I paint your corpse r