Categories > Original > Drama0 Reviews
Certainly, purple is a beautiful color, no way around it. Yet, it is not without pain that a man can create purple.
Certainly, purple is a beautiful color, no way around it. Yet, it is not without pain that a man can create purple. The purple robes of centuries before, worth so much money, took intense effort and pain to produce, with all the intense work required to create the dye. The create the purple paints of even today, a person must mix red and blue, and often blacks and whites, and sometimes even tinges of gray and green and yellow, in order to achieve the perfect color. To dye hair purple, you must first bleach it, damaging it, often beyond repair, and to maintain this color, you must be continually dying it, as purple is considered a fugitive color, leaving quickly. To sport purple on the skin, aside from painstakingly painting it or covering it in layers of makeup, an injury is required. Herein, more than just the uncomfortable side of purple, is the truly painful and unpleasant side of it.
Purple is the color of a bruise, a mark of pain. Your face turns a shade of purple or blue when you choke. When a dead body's blood begins to pool after death, it disfigures the body, staining the lowest parts purple. A dead person will begin to turn purple if he is not kept on ice. Purple is the color of rot and decay.
To me, I find purple a truly reprehensible color. It could be pretty, and in reality, when I was a small girl, I did think it pretty. I begged my mother to paint the walls of my bedroom in the color for me. As a tween, I still like the pastel purple of my walls, and I even painted my nails in the color as well, several times a month. One of my favorite eyeshadow kits at the time was a little pan filled with 5 different tones of purple, ranging from a dark violet to a barely there lavender. I had quite a few shirts in the color, and it was reason I was forever buying new watercolors and colored pencils, because it was always the first to go. Then, I met you.
I remember the first day I met you, two outcasts like us having nowhere to go during lunch hour, sitting in the same spot. For weeks, we ignored each other for the most part, but eventually we started talking. I quickly found out that we loved the same kinds of music. You introduced me to Black Veil Brides, I showed you Alesana. You told me about the other side of your family, the side you missed, and I told you about the side of my family that I hated.
No matter what your appearances might have betrayed, you weren't a fragile being made of glass. No, quite the opposite. You never backed down from anything, and it might have just been your very downfall. Within weeks of noticing you, I started to notice the color of purple blooming across your skin. A tinge of it on your jaw, a bit of it encircling your upper arm, once even a ring of it around your eye.
It would seem that the people around here couldn't tolerate your difference in the slightest.
Within three months of knowing you, I saw the bruises multiply, and you withdraw into your shell, day by day, until you barely spoke to a single soul, besides me. But even for me to haul a single word out of you, it was easier to move heaven and hell, and convince God to let Satan back into heaven. You started to miss days, weeks of school.
They were breaking you down day by day, relentlessly.
Then, one day, you didn't show up to school. It didn't surprise me in the slightest bit, what with the amount of time that you'd been missing more frequently than not. Something told me to stop by your house on my way home that day. That was when I saw the true extent of the damage that these kids had wrecked on you. Your entire back and arms were covered in rainbows of healing bruises and cuts. I could tell that they'd hit you in the face too, even though you'd tried to cover it up with your mother's concealer.
The next day, you had shown up to school, as if to prove to them that they weren't affecting you in the slightest. Even 10 years after, I still question if there was anything I could've done to prevent what happened next.
One of the kids that had been beating the stuffing out of you for the past several years came up to you, shoving you off your chair, obscenities flowing out of his mouth. He was furious that you dared to continue to show up, after he had already made it clear his feelings about you, as did his friends.
Then, the flash of silver.
When he backed off, spitting on you, I could see quite clearly that your throat had been cut, ear to ear. Nobody cared enough to help that day, as I tried holding the edges of the wound together, certain that if you held on just a minute longer, help would show up. It never did. You died that day, covered in purple and red, bruises and blood, bleeding inside and out, me sitting next to you, praying to whatever being existed that they leave you alone. When you reached the hospital, hours later, you were dead. You'd been dead for hours.
Even though I was at your killer's trial, testified, they let him go free. After all, we were just the school outcasts, and he was the star quarterback. We obviously deserved to be picked on, and in your case, killed, and he was just let free. No punishment at all.
This all started with purple, and ended with red for you, so too it will end for him.
He disappeared, and was found a month later with his throat cut. Everyone always asked, who would do such a thing?
They're the same people who question why I hate the color purple.
And if you think I actually killed someone and was writing about it online, you're just plain fucking stupid. This all came from the prompt word 'purple'