The Red

Misery.

Disgust.

Hopelessness.

Those eyes have held nothing but contempt for me since the day we met. Those eyes have been nothing but cruel.

But this? This is new.

For the first time, your eyes show a different color.

Desire. 

I, the bearer of all your hatred and scorn have become your salvation.

A tool.

Oh, how I've ached to be looked at like this by someone again.

Too long have I waited for you to realize my potential, to grasp the perfection of my vessel for such an exquisite act as this.

When a person snaps, it only takes a second for them to dive into action and commit themselves to a cause, and you, in this moment, are no different.

Pain is the world's greatest teacher.

Although it's taken you years to learn its lesson, finally, you're learning.

"It's all fun and games, right, Sam?" 

Oh yes, and it still had been on that day I was purchased, but he hasn't known fun for a long time now.

What was once a chance to bond and grow closer, "to take something ugly and make it beautiful," has lost all of its meaning and become his pathetic attempt at an apology.

He'd mistreat you and leave the house in a storm, then return with budding flora and a hideous new craft in his arms.

"I'm sorry I hit you. Here, I got this for you, remember our game?"

With a kiss and a promise to do better, he'd do it all again the very next day, and you and I have known for a long time now that he'd never change.

And yet, you held on so dearly to his vow and let your home accommodate more waste again and again, looking on with eyes of loathe that gazed not at him, but at me. 

"That's the ugliest figurine I've ever seen."

Your first words still sting.

Ugly?

No, not I.

While I have not taken my place in museums and the homes of esteemed collectors in quite some time, my gold shines still.

Though faux, my gold is strong despite years of mishandling. I still catch and reflect light after going unpolished for who knows how long.

I still stand strong, even after the loss of my most prized possession.

The giant red sun I once carried. 

I was created with outstretched hands, a wide stance, open legs, and an up-tilted head. Once, I held up a red sun in my open palms, my body pulling towards the heavens.

My creator called me "yearning for the red sun," but it's been years since I was separated from my sun, and now I yearn for something else entirely.

The sun is gone, but the desire for red is as strong as ever.

Dust may coat my form now after years of neglect on your shelf of "antiques," yet your fingers shake it all free as you grasp my hand as if your life depends on it, and I can practically hear you thanking the craftsman who gave me such perfectly pointed feet.

Finally, after years of waiting, something glorious is about to happen.

The moment you, Sam, finally let your true colors show. 

The wrath takes hold of you, rips a cry from your throat, and has you shaking with its very essence.

Despite your attempts to hide your vicious nature, I've always known you to be capable of cruelty.

You've been plotting out this day since the beginning. You'd talk to yourself about the act, about the aftermath, and about how you'd feel.

You may shrink in on yourself and cower away when he raises a hand, but your eyes have always told another story.

Those looks you send my way have always told me the truth.

And this, this is the moment I've been waiting for.

Your hand is cold with sweat as you lift me, and my gold catches the rays of moonlight through the curtains. 

Cold light bounces off my form to dazzle the room as you lift me high above your head.

He sees the light and hears your cry and he turns to look, but it's already too late.

His skull shatters with the first strike.

A perfectly pointed foot and a well-aimed blow have him dropping to the ground immediately.

But one swift crack isn't enough for you, and he's barely finished crumbling to the floor before you're on top of him. This is the side of you I've yearned to see and I let myself fall in love with your sudden manic attack.

Into the air I'm lifted, again and again and again.

The red I've been waiting for makes a grand appearance, spraying through the air to stain anything it touches. 

As the sounds of sin fill the room, the act binds us. The space between us overflows with red and I can no longer tell where I end and you begin.

Every time feels like the first time, but this murder is wild and raw and chaotic and wonderful and the very ecstasy of it consumes me.

Bone caves in and makes way for soft tissue, the gore sticking to my outstretched limbs. Warm red colors my entire world.

The attack couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds but regardless, you're done all too soon.

Your hand stills as your breath hitches. I fall from your limp grasp into the pool of red that originated from his head.

Nothing can beat the act itself, but what comes after I've learned to truly enjoy as well. 

Watching them all break as they realize what they've done. Listening to the room fill with the sound of their guilt, regret, and grief.

Then their eyes turn to me and I bask in their face of horror.

But you do none of those things.

Your silence is a thing of beauty.

Your calm demeanor and steady breaths convince me that you're someone familiar with this.

Then your eyes find mine, and for the first time, I see kindness.

Relief.

Gratitude. 

The red paints us, has cleansed us, and opened our eyes to the magnificence we're both capable of.

You stand, looking over the art you've created out of him, and walk away.

A minute was all it took for you to commit your sin, for you to feel satisfied.

But I desire more, I beg for an extended period where the red and I are one.

And so I lay in the warmth of it, relishing the moment before you return to dispose of me, already yearning for the day another will take me in their hands and give me to the red once more.