Magenta

 I love the park in the spring, particularly in the evening. It's quieter then. This park is charming, with its trees and benches, its fountain in the center. Dead center, with all the trees around it. All in bloom: snow white, pink, even some magenta. I love that word, “magenta.” I don’t know why, I just do, ok? I just do. I’m sure it’s alright, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. Yes, it’s got to be. Magenta. Magnificent magenta. 

 Almost red, but not quite. It’s not the season for red. Not yet. It is the season for yellow, though. Forsythia bushes are so pretty. Happy, glowing almost, with the lights of the park shining on them. Especially when paired with the light green lawns surrounding them. I can drink the whole thing in with a giant straw. A giant straw! That makes me laugh. Giant, to suck in the whole park, with all its brilliant, springtime colors. 

 I’m getting up from the park bench, now. I think I’ll take a walk. There are other people here, but they stay away from me, for some reason. I don’t know why. Yes. I think, in fact, I do, but it’s no matter. I’m better off without them, anyway. Much, much better off. Especially in red season. 

 Red, different from magenta. Magenta is pretty, innocent, springtime. Red is hot, sexy, sinful. Summertime. Red roses, so beautiful, yet their thorns can be so deadly. Deadly, like a woman in a red dress. A whore. That’s what women are. Whores. Oh, some hide it better than others. Those are the worst, the ones with the sweet smiles and nice manners, who swear they love you while they stab you in the back. 

 It happened to me. I got hoodwinked by a pretty face. Once. Only once. But that was enough. Quite enough. Her name was Maria. Imagine that, such an innocent-sounding name for such an evil being! I met her at a college dance, of all places. We got to talking, and made an almost instant connection. It happens like that, sometimes. We both had similar tastes in music, art, even wine. We talked for hours, discussing the latest political scandals, scientific breakthroughs and fashion trends. Anything and everything. At the end of the evening, we knew we were meant for each other, as corny as that sounds. In a matter of weeks, we were already discussing marriage; can you believe it? I was so happy when I asked Maria if she’d live with me, and she agreed! Everything was perfect, or so I thought. Until one day I caught the bitch, the sneaking, lying bitch, with another man, in our bed, no less. Filthy whore. She didn’t know I was coming home early because my class happened to get cancelled. Well, I showed her! Luckily, it had been cold that day, cold enough for me to be wearing gloves. I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed that pretty little neck of hers without leaving one single fingerprint. I strangled that lying, cheating piece of shit to death. It was so funny to see the coward she was with scramble to get dressed! He ran for the hills. The cops never did solve that case. I made sure not to touch anything in the room, including her sinfully red dress that lay crumpled in the middle of the floor. 

 Come to think of it, that wasn’t the first time I was hurt by a woman. When I was twelve years old, it was my mother. I loved her more than anything else in the world. I thought she loved me, too. She was my protector against the moodiness of my dad. Sometimes he was as sweet as pie, and others brooding as thunder, but she made sure his angry times didn’t affect me, at least as far as humanly possible. Then one day, she hugged me tight and left the house. I assumed she’d be back later that day, but she wasn’t. She never came back, and I was left brokenhearted, unprotected from my dad’s rages, his increasingly violent rages after she abandoned me, the no-good betrayer. Betrayed. It happened to me in high school, too. Mrs. Sanders. She’d been helping me with my homework, and one day it was just she and I in her classroom after school. Wasn’t I surprised when the teacher I had trusted, out of the blue, bent down to me and kissed me hard on the lips! I was confused, so scared, and she made me swear never to tell a soul about what had happened. I never did, no, I never, ever did, but I never trusted that scumbag again. Two scumbags. Mrs. Sanders and my very own mom, imagine that! Then, there was that piece of trash who I thought I loved: Maria. Now I know for sure. All women are the same. All smiles on the surface, rotten to the core underneath. They all deserve to die. I swear I will do my part to make that happen. 

 But not yet this year. As I said, it’s springtime. Not red. Not blood-time. I have to be patient, and enjoy it. Enjoy the benches, the gathering dusk of evening, getting dark, but still light enough to see, the whites, greens, yellows, pinks, and especially magentas. Ah, the magentas! The reddish pinks before the true red. Before the blood-time, when more filthy whores will die. 

   I’m taking a walk around the park. I love it here, really I do. The smells, the sounds. In the distance, a dad is playing ball with his son. They seem to be having fun, and I’m envious. My dad rarely did that with me, never after mom left. But at least the boy isn’t with his mother. She‘ll only turn out to be a traitor. He‘s sure to be better off without her. I also see the usual lovers holding hands, walking along the trails. I have to look away, otherwise I’m afraid I might vomit. And yet, looking at the girl makes me excited, too. She’s potential prey in the very near future. 

 I must get a hold of myself. I must apply a dose of self-discipline. I can’t let myself get too excited pre-maturely. I’ll talk to myself, repeat words, like a mantra. I can wait. I can wait. Yes, that’s working. I will gaze at the lovely magenta trees, and bide my time. That’s ok, isn’t I? Yes, I’m quite certain it is.