Saturday's Storyteller: "Red."
by Belinda Roddie
Red. That's all that she wore. Red shirt, red vest, red slacks, red coat. Red belt winding across her broad waist. Dark crimson boots gliding all the way up to her knees. Red buckles, too. A red hat to keep her hair out of her eyes. A red umbrella to ward off the rain.
She donned red in a town where most wore black, where grass was more brown than green, where skies were more gray than blue. When she ordered wine in restaurants, it was red - dark red. The kind that left tattooed stains around the corners of your lips when you drank it. She used a red handkerchief to dab at her mouth after each sip. That way, when you looked at the cloth, you couldn't even tell it was marked.
Many people had once found her attire alarming, perhaps even sinful. They had left it alone afterward, when she showed no signs of changing her clothing's color, or of leaving the town at all. They did not speak to her, though. Nearly everyone didn't speak to her. They watched her eat and drink and walk and stand and sit with their eyes partially hidden behind their menus or books or hats or sunglasses. They kept their lips drawn tightly together, as if a needle had sewn them shut. With a judgmental black thread, no less.
In fact, the only people who spoke to the woman in red were myself and the owner of a small, quaint antique store where almost everything was gilded or painted silver. He was gray-bearded and amber-eyed, a tall man of indecipherable age but with a jaw as glossy and chiseled as browned pottery freshly brought out of a kiln. When he sat down beside her, people began to whisper, but only to each other, and to those who cared enough to listen. Just because they did not talk to her, of course, did not mean they would not talk about her, and ceaselessly. It was enough to make me want to douse all their heads in cold beer, rather than drink it.
The storeowner, the woman, and I were an interesting sight to behold in the local tavern or shops. We wore nothing but reds, golds, silvers, and bronzes in washed out rooms and dreary spaces. We were like molded metals bedecked with jeweled flame. The storeowner, with his silver hair and copper skin. The woman, with her ruby hues full-blazen as she pushed the tails of her coat over the curve of her stool. Myself, with cropped flaxen hair and glistening golden gloves, a souvenir from my grandmother. I also wore her pocket watch close to my left breast. That, of course, was also gold.
Many people would leave us be. One man, in particular, would not. He wore black. All black. He blended in with the shadowy part of the wall, but when he emerged, he was a towering monolith. He did not like how the three of us spoke. He did not like how the woman held my gloved hand. How she kissed my cheeks and my lips.
"I don't like you," he hummed, his voice as low and throbbing as a dying man's pulse. His finger was leveled at the storeowner's silver crown. "I don't like you at all."
That was all he would usually do, until the "one fateful night." The "one fateful night" when there was red in the storeowner's hair and beard. The "one fateful night" when I had to painfully extract my fingers from the blackclad demon's mouth. The "one fateful night" when I cradled the woman in red in my arms, trying to stop the bleeding.
Only she didn't bleed red.
She bled white.
This week's prompt was provided by Caitlin Mae.
Red. That's all that she wore. Red shirt, red vest, red slacks, red coat. Red belt winding across her broad waist. Dark crimson boots gliding all the way up to her knees. Red buckles, too. A red hat to keep her hair out of her eyes. A red umbrella to ward off the rain.
She donned red in a town where most wore black, where grass was more brown than green, where skies were more gray than blue. When she ordered wine in restaurants, it was red - dark red. The kind that left tattooed stains around the corners of your lips when you drank it. She used a red handkerchief to dab at her mouth after each sip. That way, when you looked at the cloth, you couldn't even tell it was marked.
Many people had once found her attire alarming, perhaps even sinful. They had left it alone afterward, when she showed no signs of changing her clothing's color, or of leaving the town at all. They did not speak to her, though. Nearly everyone didn't speak to her. They watched her eat and drink and walk and stand and sit with their eyes partially hidden behind their menus or books or hats or sunglasses. They kept their lips drawn tightly together, as if a needle had sewn them shut. With a judgmental black thread, no less.
In fact, the only people who spoke to the woman in red were myself and the owner of a small, quaint antique store where almost everything was gilded or painted silver. He was gray-bearded and amber-eyed, a tall man of indecipherable age but with a jaw as glossy and chiseled as browned pottery freshly brought out of a kiln. When he sat down beside her, people began to whisper, but only to each other, and to those who cared enough to listen. Just because they did not talk to her, of course, did not mean they would not talk about her, and ceaselessly. It was enough to make me want to douse all their heads in cold beer, rather than drink it.
The storeowner, the woman, and I were an interesting sight to behold in the local tavern or shops. We wore nothing but reds, golds, silvers, and bronzes in washed out rooms and dreary spaces. We were like molded metals bedecked with jeweled flame. The storeowner, with his silver hair and copper skin. The woman, with her ruby hues full-blazen as she pushed the tails of her coat over the curve of her stool. Myself, with cropped flaxen hair and glistening golden gloves, a souvenir from my grandmother. I also wore her pocket watch close to my left breast. That, of course, was also gold.
Many people would leave us be. One man, in particular, would not. He wore black. All black. He blended in with the shadowy part of the wall, but when he emerged, he was a towering monolith. He did not like how the three of us spoke. He did not like how the woman held my gloved hand. How she kissed my cheeks and my lips.
"I don't like you," he hummed, his voice as low and throbbing as a dying man's pulse. His finger was leveled at the storeowner's silver crown. "I don't like you at all."
That was all he would usually do, until the "one fateful night." The "one fateful night" when there was red in the storeowner's hair and beard. The "one fateful night" when I had to painfully extract my fingers from the blackclad demon's mouth. The "one fateful night" when I cradled the woman in red in my arms, trying to stop the bleeding.
Only she didn't bleed red.
She bled white.
This week's prompt was provided by Caitlin Mae.
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