Red is for anger
I don't get angry often, but when Mikey told me what he was doing, I was fuming. I was screaming, yelling, throwing things at the wall, punching everything I could reach. I don't know what I was angry at. Maybe myself, maybe Mikey, maybe our parents, maybe just the world in general. What I do know is I was murderous.
Maybe my anger was a bad thing, and it probably just made everything worse. Mikey came to me with tears in his eyes, a painfully regretful look on his face. Just that look had me embracing him in a tight hug, telling him it would be okay, that he could tell me anything, and what was the matter? Then he told me.
He confessed to the drugs and the alcohol and the cutting. To the nightclubs and the whoring himself out and the depression. And then I was shoving him away. And then I was asking him how could he? Didn't he learn from my mistakes? Didn't watching me on that same downward spiral show him anything?!?
Then Mikey was crying, and then tears were streaming down my own face though I was still raging. Then Mikey was apologizing, yelling how much he was sorry, making promises to stop that I knew he'd break, skinny arms reaching for comfort I was nowhere near ready to give.
It was like that all night, until finally Mikey gave up and left, probably to go drown his sorrows and get stoned. Just like I used too. Just like when I nearly killed myself a million times over. And I hadn't been able to protect him, wasn't able to shield him from the demons that haunted me. And I hated myself for it.
That night, when I closed my eyes for a restless sleep, I could see the fires of rage, hatred, and regret boiling underneath my eyelids.