Blood Stained Lilacs

I used to always adore the color purple, always a soft yet royal color. It had a calming feel to it and reminded me of lilacs, lavender, sunsets, koolaid, and childhood. Of a simpler time when I could just be free and think about my next adventure. Of my next story. When I didn't run to my room to hide from the screaming downstairs. It was a safe color and maybe that's why I painted my walls that rich color. A common favorite. Almost everyone liked purple. There was a day when that color wasn't my sole favorite anymore. I was laying in a cozy warm twin-sized bed, cuddled up to my stuffed wolf named Kitty that I got a couple weeks prior at Bass Pro. Covered in a tan cigarette-burned blanket that nobody really knew where it came from, wrapped up like a burrito. Hiding underneath, my arm stretched out so I could see my own false starry sky. I was eleven or twelve then. Recently moved to a new home with a new parental figure and school had been out due to COVID.

I remember resting my eyes, letting the darkness envelop me in a comforting blanket. I woke up standing. Everything around me I didn't recognize, not the streets, buildings, sidewalks, flowers, sky, or billboards. I was confused and alone in a large bustling city. I remember the girl, her hair was a long wavy chestnut her icy eyes were glued to her phone as she scrolled through social media. Not bothering to pry her eyes from her beloved makeup videos as she stepped out on the street. Her foot never landed on the dark grey asphalt which was nearly a black that seemed freshly done. Now freshly painted in crimson. Her legs split in two, fumers out for the world to see. Her fingers reached out in all directions as her ribs became one with the car. The driver was unable to see over the deep thick crimson paint. The silence broke with screeches and screams.

The freshly redone roads were ruined by the desperate swerves of the driver as they panicked from the carnage. From being a murderer. All they caused was an ambulance to lose its course. The backdoors of the ambulance flew open like curtains as the main actor on a stretcher fled without will. His screams of terror as he headed towards a bustling street full of panic were like my inner symphony. Metal against metal, bending together with limbs painting each car and sidewalk with the beautiful red. My heart pounded in my ears as my throat closed holding in any screams of terror-filled excitement. My stomach twisted as each scream of civilians became guggled struggles against natural crimson paint.

The carnage didn't end in the streets. Helicopters crashed into landing planes. Each ignited as they descended with families inside praying. Buildings burning with bright colors reminded me of the sunsets back at home. The fire painted a beautiful picture over the carnage. Deep rich crimson river running through the streets. Limbs scattered throughout the streets. Metal mangled until you couldn't tell where it came from. It reminded me of a zombie apocalypse movie yet pretty. My mouth tasted of that rich copper I licked off from wounds as a young child. My guts twisted into a pretzel but my lips turned upright. I felt sick and warm pleasure from the carnage. The girl's videos still playing a couple feet from her mangled corpse. If only she had just looked up for a second then she'd still be watching her makeup videos.

The city was all dead except me. I was now truly alone among the death. Putting a foot in front of the other I walk over to the phone. The screen glowed despite being cracked and painted with the blood of its prior owner. Using my sleeve I wipe off the screen and look at my face. Blood splattered against my cheeks, lips cracked and peeling. Eyes as dark as the night sky but with a childish gleam. My lips upturned in a small sadistic smile.

Of course that was all a dream and I woke up in a cold sweat. Drenched from the gore-filled nightmare. As I crept into the living room all I saw were crimson dots in my vision. Sinking into the couch my mind wandered. To the days I'd pick at my scabs and lap up the warm blood from the freshly picked wound. How I adored red velvet cake and cookies, adoring the rich taste and color. How I saw red when my parents fought. When they separated. When my younger sister misbehaved. When I was punished. How I saw red with each punch, each slap or nail dug into my milky chocolate skin. How I saw how it glowed a bright red through my tears when I finally stopped. My heart sank knowing I wasn't well mentally but didn't tell anybody. I never wanted to bleed. I never wanted to be the cause of a new fresh wound that would leave a scar that'll stay with me. I never did but I wanted to bleed without bleeding. Scream without screaming. To stop seeing red. Perhaps that's why I love red so much. It was all I saw for a while, most people would hate it, be sick of it. I was never a normal kid though.

Even years later I still can't forget about that dream. I learned the meaning of flowers and colors. My fascination with death grew until I knew how much acetone it took to kill someone, and how to calculate it. Learning facts on serial killers and ways of torture. Each fact makes my stories feel more real. Red meant power, red was the color of death. Purple was royal and hard to achieve. Mixing the two, having two favorites. God how I adore blood-covered flowers. The mix of copper and floral scents is just to die for. My all-time favorite? Blood-soaked Lilacs.