The once off-white tiles of the bathroom floor had been painted red. [Frerard]
The once off-white tiles of the bathroom floor had been painted red. The color of his mother's brightly painted lips that kissed him on the cheek every day. The color of the fields behind his house, that were filled with poppies when spring started to spread over the continent. The color of blood, blood that covered every surface and that never leave what it had touched completely.
The color of his blood.
He hadn't opened his eyes, but he still saw everything against his eyelids. The vibrant blues of their baseball jackets, that were thrown on a pile on the floor as soon as they entered and saw him standing there. The faint yellows of his old bruises that would be covered in new ones soon. The browns of their eyes, that turned dark and cold with rage.
His breaths came in stuttered gasps. His weak, damaged lungs were giving up on him.
He hadn't seen them coming. It was late, after the deafening sounds of teenage life had left the building. That was when he finally let his mind spill over and create. Only then.
He had been washing the last remains of the vibrant pinks and violets off his arms, at peace with himself for a rare moment, when they came in. A horde of stampeding bulls, shouting and snorting with their sleeves curled up and their faces set in stone. He hadn't stood a chance against their anger.
Opening his eyes would only lead to more emotional turmoil. He could not bear to look down at his battered body and once again see his black shirt ripped and matted with blood and tears. His jeans ripped at the knees from hitting the rough floor too hard. His beautiful, new beige Converse covered in blood and angry "FAG"'s written in big letters.
He could not move. He still felt the fists in his face, reddening and blackening his lily white skin. His legs had been stamped on and trampled, and they had probably succeeded in "breaking that little fag's bones". His left arm felt like it had been disconnected from his body, as he could not feel it at all. He figured that it was probably better that way, since the way his arm had cracked and bent had not been natural.
Despite all this, he knew that if he tried he would be able to reach the greysof the hallway outside. He would crawl out and lay there, wait for someone to find him. The hallway wasn't a busy one, but eventually a teacher or janitor would walk by and see the crumbled heap of a boy on the ground. They would take him to the bright white ER of the hospital and he would get patched up.
But that was where his problem lay. He did not want to get patched up. He did not want to be found and made better by nurses and doctors with plastic devices and plastic smiles. It had happened so many times before, but despite all the "it'll get better"'s and the "you'll get through this"'s, he had given up hope. It wasn't going to get better. He wasn't going to get through this. Nothing would change. He was just a boy from the shadows with dark clothes and an even darker soul; why would anyone choose him above all the others?
He was just going to lay here. Here, in this dirty blood-splattered bathroom on the second floor of his high school. And wait for the stubborn last traces of life to seep out of his cold body. He felt at peace on again, as his head started to feel light from the red that hadn't stopped spilling out of the cracks in his skin.
He was going to be happy now. The black void that was his soul would slip away, away from this old building and into the darkening sky. His dark existence would come to an end.
He faintly heard asound behind him. A startled gasp. He tried to steelhimself for more hurt, but he couldn't. It would not matter anymore after he had gone, anyway.
He sluggishly opened his eyes when he heard that voice. It couldn't be..
Something was thrown away and then he heard knees hitting the floor next to his head, the sound echoing inside the small room. A face moved into his line of sight. Green eyes looked into his own hazels, surrounded by a halo of dark brown hair.
It was the green his mind and body had been aching for. It was the green of his angel.
"Oh my god, oh my god Gee. Stay with me. I'm going to call 911, okay? Stay with me, baby." He fumbled for his phone, but kept their eyes locked. "I'm going to fucking kill them honey, you know I will.."
His voice had turned cold, but the soft hand that grabbed his broken one was warm.
"Please, Gee. Don't leave me." The other hand had thrown away the phone and was pressing down on the wound on his stomach, ruby red blood seeping through his thin fingers.
He had to struggle to keep his eyes open, but he would do anything for the distraught looking boy next to him. This time, he could not give up. He fought against the dark smudges of unconsciousness and softly squeezed the hand in his own.
"I can not die wh-hen you are n-next to me, dear Fra-nkie," he whispered while blood dripped down his chin.
Salty tears dripped on his face. "Good, 'cause I'm not letting you go."
And as he was carted away deeper and deeper into the hospital, he could not think about the reds, the blues, the yellows and the greys. All he could think about was the color of his life.
Thank you for reading. I decided to write something a little different from what I usually write, and this is the result. I hope you enjoyed it!
(Reviews and/or ratings would be greatly appreciated)