Crimson

How strange that I would hate the sun for shining, and the birds for singing, and the grass for being green, the sky for being blue, and everything else cliché. How strange that it would affect my mood, when everything was as perfect as perfect can be. It all seemed so fake, as if someone was mocking me and my hand-made misery. If a storm cloud would just pass over and cover that obnoxious, flaming orb in the sky, and if lighting could strike the grass and scorch it black... maybe then, I'd feel better.

The trees bend lazily in the breeze, the same breeze that taunts me, as if to say, "You decide your own peace of mind..." I'm angry at the wind, at the trees, at everything that exists outside of my mind. I'm locked in this would-be cozy, home-like room, with the pictures of smiling people who love each other decorating the walls, with the old play-things of former occupants, with the picturesque little writing desk, complete with a picturesque fountain pen. Perfection, it seems, it almost taken for granted.

I’ve always been a passionate person, but this almost wasn’t fair. They couldn’t take me out of the paradise I had been living in, and place me in this hell -- this perfect hell, with the smiling people on the wall and the sun that always shone. This wasn’t home, it wasn’t me.

Strange, though, how I had never been happy where I had been, until they removed me. I thought I hated it there, too -- all the rain, the darkness, the people who never smiled at me. The people who never loved me. Maybe they did, but they had funny ways of showing it. I had thought they were so pathetic. I felt like they were continuously either patronizing me, or treating me like I was special. How had that been comfort? That horrible feeling of loneliness, that feeling that there was hate that the others just barely suppressed. They never loved me.

And now I was here, and ideally, it would be perfect. I could start anew, make real friends, be happy. Yet as soon as they left me to my own design, I locked myself in the attic and wouldn’t come out. They had taken away my knives, my blades, everything possible that I might be able to injure myself with. I wore shorts and tank tops just so they could see the shining white scars. They had pretended not to notice, their painted smiles dragging on and on, their unblinking eyes watching my own, looking anywhere but the lines up and down my arms and legs. I dared them to give me my knives back.

I hated every person depicted on the walls. I hated their eyes, full of life and love and everything that I had never enjoyed. I hated that handsome young man with his arm around that pretty young woman. I hated the child that played on the beach, frozen forever in that smiling, joyful pose. I hated them.

They told me that here, I could find real love. They lied. They don't know me. They don't know that there is no human on the face of this planet who will really love me. I'm too different. I've got scars that tell a tale of neglect and fake affection, a story that winds on and on and on and on with no hope of an end in sight. And yet they look past the knife marks and tell me that someone will love me. No one is loving enough to love me. I've run too far, barred myself off, and all the false care you can give me won't be real love. Real love is a myth for me.

I've become so incredibly adept at smiling, that people don't know I'm lying blatantly to their face. They look at me; they see a rebellious, dark child. They smile and tell me I'll be happy here. I smiled back at first, saying no, I won't. But they took me anyway, and I won't smile for them anymore. They should know how utterly miserable I am in their perfect world of paradise.

My mother was never there for me, but when my first boyfriend broke up with me, she told me it was because I was hopeless. There was no way that any boy could find anything attractive in me. She pointed at my scars; I didn't bother to hide them when I was around her. "Look," she said, satisfied. "That's your mark. No one can look at you and say, 'there's someone I can love.'"

And she was right. I've had boyfriend after boyfriend, but they all break up with me in the end. I'm not enough to love. I've got marks.

The only thing I found comfort in was the fact that I was the one black spot on their wonderfully white canvas. I was the blemish, the deformity, the alien. This world wasn't so perfect anymore now that they brought me in.

My room was the one with the smiling people who loved, the obnoxious writing desk, the window overlooking the willow trees and tranquil river. I scoffed at the view at first. I was on the fourth floor; if I jumped, I could die. This was a comforting thought, I realize now. I open the window and peered down. Concrete below me.

The days dragged slowly forward, as if being forced by an unseen hand. I stayed in solitude, refusing meals, enjoying the hunger pains that stabbed my stomach. Going mad with starvation would surely be a pleasant change. When at last they forced me to take food, I accepted it, feigning gratefulness, and then disposed of the sustinance out the window. They knew, of course, but they said nothing.

I had taken to leaving my room between one in the morning and five in the morning. During these periods, I would wander the dark grounds, wishing to run and never return. I was in such a state that I knew I would pass out if I exerted myself too greatly, and if I did faint, someone would find me and take me back to that perfect little room and never let me leave.

So I stood by the river, and watched the black water rush by, and wished to drown myself.

"Which one is your oldest?"

I willed myself not to start. I hadn't heard this voice before. Turning, I saw a young man perhaps my age, watching me confidently from a few feet away. He was wearing all black, and he had long dark hair that covered one of his eyes.

"Get away," I snarled, instinctively watching for any signs of violence. A knife, perhaps. I was not used to not expecting some sort of danger wherever I went. A fight-thrill went through me, which surprised me.

The young man, instead of leaving, shrugged and took a step closer. "There's no where else to go, except back to bed. Which one is your oldest?"

He gestured to the shining white lines on my arms.

"Why do you care?" I asked, still viciously.

"This is my oldest," he said, revealing the back of his hand. A thin, almost invisible line ran from his knuckle to his wrist. "Did that one three years ago."

"I don't care."

"And these," he pulled up his sleeve to display a gruesome web of scars. "These are my newest. Three months ago."

"I don't care."

"Which one is your oldest?"

I glared at him suspiciously. "I don't tend to show them off," I spat.

"Yes, you do. You don't bother to cover them up, which means you want people to notice."

"That's a lie."

"It's what I do."

I still had not let down my guard. He shrugged at me and sat down by the stream.

"Which room is yours?" he asked, off-handedly. He didn't wait for a response. "They gave me the room with the baseball pictures. All the players, and their stupid smiles. And they took awake my knives."

I didn't reply.

He went on talking. "They thought I wouldn't be able to cut anymore, without knives." He smirked, a little sadly. "They were wrong. But I haven't done it in three months. They never tried to stop me, even when they knew I was. There were bloodstains on the floor every morning, and I left all day, and when I came back, my room was clean again. But they never told me to stop."

He was quiet, so I pointed to my calf. "That's my oldest," I said, spitefully. "I thought if I did it on my leg, I could pull off a lie that it was from some outside activity, some cat, some stray thorn bush. And I did. And this is my newest--" I gestured to a still-red pattern on my upper arm. "I did that two days ago."

He looked mildly interested. "What caused it? The first one."

"My mother told me I'd never be loved," I said angrily.

He nodded. "They say you'll be loved here."

"It's a lie," I said.

"That's what I thought."

"Well? Are you loved?"

He seemed to consider this for a moment. "No," he said, thoughtfully. "I'm not. They said I'd find love, they said they'd love me, but they don't. They just act like they do."

"What's the difference?" I asked bitterly.

"Real love is when you can feel it."

We were both quiet for awhile. I was still standing there, mentally refusing to give in and sit down.

"I wanted to die," I said finally.

"Gave up that fast?"

"No," I said. "I didn't want to live here."

"They didn't either, when they came."

I didn't ask what that meant.

"Sit down," he said, not cheerfully, but not unhappily.

I crouched warily beside him.

"Close enough. What's your name?"

I glanced at him briefly. He wasn't looking at me, it was almost as if he didn't care to know my name.

"I'm called Crimson," I said flatly.

"That's not what I asked. What's your name?"

I frowned. What was my name?

"I'm called Shade," he said, "but my name is James."

"What shall I call you?"

"Whatever you like."

I was quiet.

"Well, your name?"

"Jezebel," bitterly.

"Jezebel?" with surprise.

"Yes," I replied harshly, and swore.

"What shall I call you?"

"What you like. I don't care."

It was his turn to be quiet, and he looked surprised when I spoke again.

"Don't call me Crimson."

"Alright. Why not?"

I self-consciously glanced at an X-shaped scar on my wrist. "He gave it to me. My first boyfriend."

He smiled. "Have you had many?"

"None of your business."

"No, I would say not."

"I'm going to call you Shade."

"That's fine."

I half-expected him to tell me not to, because his first girlfriend had named him Shade. And then, for some reason, I was disappointed when I was allowed to call him Shade.

"How long have you been here?" I asked, suddenly.

He frowned. "A year," he said, distantly.

"Why did you have to come?"

He turned to me. I wondered fleetingly if his obstructed eye was a different color than the one I could see. "What sort of a name is Jezebel?" he asked, seriously.

I stood and left him.

For several nights, I didn't leave my room at night. I could see him, sitting there, from my window, but I never went down to talk to him. Part of me hated the fact that I was tempted to go talk to him. The smiling people on the wall mocked me with their happiness, their security. The young couple were so sickeningly in love. I could tell by their eyes. Even a photograph couldn't take away from that sense.

On the fifth night, I went down to the stream. He was already sitting there, staring at the water.

"Shade," I said, heatedly.

"Jezebel," he replied, evenly.

"I came here because I tried to commit suicide."

He didn't look at me. "I never asked why you came."

"But you were going to. I didn't want you to ask."

He lifted his half-gaze to my eyes. "My mother was stabbed," he said, simply. "I saw her. She died a few days later. That's when they brought me here."

He held out his left arm. A long, ugly scar ran up and down. "That one was an accident," he said, smiling mirthlessly. "I tried to stop the man who was stabbing her. He got my arm. But she died."

I waited.

"The doctors thought I had done it to myself, when they saw my other scars." There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "They wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't done it. And then she died. And then they brought me here."

He looked detached, as if reciting someone else's history. "I tried to kill myself so many times," he went on, quieter, this time. "I kept seeing the look on her face as the man stabbed her. I kept seeing her face, when she died. But I couldn't do it. Not here."

"Why not?" I asked, without meaning to.

He looked up at me. "It doesn't work," was all he said. It seemed to be enough.

We were quiet for a long time. I felt like I should say something comforting, and then wondered, angrily, why I should feel like comforting him. He had said it as if it was not his story. As if he neither expected nor would accept pity or sympathy.

"Jezebel," he said, very quietly. I glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at me. "My mother's name was Jezebel."

I stood. "I'm sorry," I burst out, and turned and left.

He wasn't at the stream for several days, but I went anyway. The black water ran, ever steadily, and I wished to stop it.

When next I saw him, he asked me if I had eaten recently. I had almost gotten used to the constant cramps in my stomach, and I lied and told him I ate as normally as any person would. He smiled. "You won't be able to starve yourself here," he told me. "You should eat, at least then you won't feel so miserable."

"I want to feel miserable," I snapped.

"I know," he said. "That's the Crimson side of you."

I left. Once I was alone, I wondered how he always managed to upset me.

I made him angry once. It was three in the morning, and we were sitting side by side next to the stream.

"Did your mother love you?" I asked.

He looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."

"Did you feel it?"

"I... I guess... I guess not."

"So... she just acted like she loved you?"

"No, Jezebel."

"Maybe she didn't love you. Maybe it was false love." I said this bitterly.

"I loved her."

"Did she feel it?"

He looked disconcerted. "How should I know?"

"I don't know. I've never loved anyone."

"Then don't ask me if she loved me."

"I wanted to know!" I was angry before he was.

"It's none of your business whether or not my mother loved me!"

"If you had really loved her, you wouldn't be here."

He froze. "What do you mean?"

"Love kills," I said, savagely. "Love protects, but it kills. You would have been able to protect her if you had really loved her. But you didn't. All you've got is a scar, while she's dead, you never really loved her--"

"Be quiet," he said darkly, his one visible eye flashing. "You don't know anything."

"You never loved her."

He got up and stood in front of me, and I thought he was going to strike me. Instead he said, "You're still Crimson." And he left.

I don't know why I wanted to make him angry. I wanted to see that he had hurt in his life, that he wasn't as wonderful as the rest of this world wanted him to be. I wanted to see his flaws, his weaknesses. I wanted him to be as human as I was.

We didn't talk to each other for several days. He fumed in righteous anger, and I struggled both with feelings of victory and feelings of guilt. At last, I tracked him down in the middle of a bright, warm, perfect day.

"Shade," I called. He was across the field, sitting against a tree, staring off with his arms crossed. He didn't respond.

I was coming nearer. "Shade," I said again, feeling irritated. I had been given the silent treatment far too often to care anymore. My mother rarely talked to me. My father was too drunk to think properly.

At last I was standing directly in front of him. He refused stubbornly to meet my eyes.

"Shade," I said, exasperated. He did not respond.

"James."

He suddenly fixed the one eye I could see on me. "Don't call me that."

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"It's what she called me."

"Well, it's your name, isn't it?"

"Shut up. You don't know anything."

"I want to know what it was like to be loved."

"She didn't love me."

"I think she did."

"I'm not going to talk to you."

"Staying mad at me won't help."

"Don't preach."

"I'll leave, if you like."

"Please do."

I glared at him, and he was gazing away from me determinedly. "I don't want to leave."

"Stay, then."

"Fine."

I sat down in the grass.

"I wish I hadn't met you," he muttered.

"Join the club," I said, bitterly.

He looked at me abruptly. "I didn't mean that."

I didn't respond.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, you aren't."

"I am sorry. If you don't believe me, that's your problem."

We were quiet. He wasn't looking at me. I realized vaugely that I had never before seen him in the daylight.  I was hating the air again, hating how wonderful it felt, hating the sun for shining on me, hating the grass for being so soft and green, hating the sky for being so beautiful. I held out my arms and felt a cold thrill at the light glinting off the scars.

"Don't do that," he said, irritably.

I lowered my arms obligingly.

"I want to go home, Shade."

"You can't. Not yet."

"How long do I have to stay?"

He looked at me. "That depends on you."

The weeks went by. Sometimes, I almost thought I didn't mind the sun shining all the time, and maybe the grass wasn't so ridiculously perfect. Sometimes, I went outside in the day time, and stood there and stared at the sky, and wrapped my arms inside each other so the scars couldn't reflect the light.

"Did you stop?" he asked me once, upon finding me standing in the sun.

I covered my arms. "Yes," I replied.

"Are you glad?"

"I don't know."

"It never helps, Jezebel. The pain never helped."

After a few months, we never met at night anymore. We stood in the sun and talked, and it didn't bother me that the water wouldn't stop running, and the smiling people were smiling, and the desk looked too perfect. I started to laugh again. He and I would walk around and talk about the imperfections we found, and if I was clever, I could make him laugh.

"What's the color of your other eye?" I asked once.

He smirked. "Just the same as my other eye."

"Why do you cover it up?"

He brushed the dark hair away for a moment. His eye was normal. "I cover it up because it's who I am," he said, simply, as if that was all I needed.

They came and told me I could go, now, if I wanted. They said a lot of emotional, sentimental things that made me feel queasy, but in the end said I could go. I stood there, confused, until he wandered up.

"Leaving, Jezebel?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to stay?"

"Are you leaving?"

He smiled, but didn't say anything.

"Can you leave?"

"I could, if I wanted to."

"Why haven't you?"

He shrugged. "I'm good at lying. They let me go too soon."

I frowned. "You weren't ready... but you didn't leave?"

"No."

"Oh."

"So, are you going to leave, Jezebel?"

I thought, just maybe, that I saw a flicker of hope in his eye.

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, firing up immediately.

"That depends," he smiled.

I spent the rest of the day on my bed, staring at the brown, sweet-smelling rafters. I had wanted to leave for so many months, and now I could...  And yet I wasn't. I was waiting. I was still here.  What was I waiting for?

The next day I found him, by the stream, as usual. "Hello, James," I said.

"Hello, Jezebel," he said, lazily.

"I'm going to leave," I said.

He glanced up at me. "You are?"

"If you come with me."

He smiled very, very slightly. "How do you know I'm ready?"

"I don't. Are you?"

"Have you found what you were looking for?"

"That's the only reason I haven't left right away."

He smiled and stood.

"I'm ready, Jezebel."