Paint It All Red Novels & Stories

Carla “Red. Something red! Black. Blue. Green Fucking yellow. But nothing red!” I yell in frustration, pulling out all the clothes from my closet. This has to be some sort of a joke. I have all the colors except for red. How can this be? I mean isn’t red a very common color? Why don’t I have something red? I know, I know, a red dress is something almost everyone has. Why don’t I have a red dress?

But I couldn’t help it. What color do I use this time? Black was only when I was almost high on the painkillers. I needed something else. I needed to paint it red. Yes—red would contrast perfectly. I started to pour the pain into the room. I’m not perfect! The room shouldn’t be. Leave me alone. Leave Lucifer. Leave us! But then… did I really want to be alone with him? He was the biggest monster I was running from. “Fuck! Baby, you’re bleeding.”

I said, “Some of these words sounds desperate. Women are supposed to be in charge here, they shouldn’t request. Shouldn’t ask. They summon, Daniel.” He looked me. I looked at him. Gaze stern. Misogynistic bigot. Of course he didn’t like this. It was why I insisted he did it anyways. “We’re changing this set. No red color also. Everything’s supposed to be black and gold.” “Oh I thought red adds to it all. The mood you know.” he shrugged, “Intimate.” “No.” I said slowly looking at him. “Red looks too Inferno. Inferno’s downstairs, we’re not Inferno. We’re Seraph. Also from now on, Gold means approval and black means denial.”

I muttered. The silence swallows the room, the only sound is the relentless ticking of the clock. My fingertips painted a crimson danced a nervous rhythm around the stem of my wine glass. The heavy damask drapes, a deep shade of merlot, pooled on the floor like spilled blood. A ruby pendant, the matching set to the earrings adorning my ears, dangled from a delicate silver chain around my neck, catching the flickering light and throwing a series of tiny red suns across the mahogany table. Red, it had always been red. a bold choice. The color of passion, of power. but red was always my shield, my armor against the world.

' He grumbled through the mind link. Red, it was the colour of blood. It is the colour that spills as one is tortured and beaten. The deep shade was the most visual form of pain. The pain that I enjoyed giving to those do dare disrespect. It was the colour of the devil. However, Athina had proclaimed it to be colour of the angel. The deep shade wasn't a sign of pain or danger when it came to her. It was simply a colour showing its beauty.

Bitbit nito ang mga inorder ko at akma nang papasok pero sinimangutan ko siya at umiling. “Leave it in the kitchen, Ate. And do you see that color?” Maarte akong ngumuso bago umikot ang mga mata sa kabuuan ng kwarto ko. “Like omg? They wouldn’t fit to my bright room. It’s nakakairitang tingnan, please.” The boxes were painted in dark red, contrasting my bright-colored pastel bedroom. It would stand out easily and it would irritate the hell out of me so I’d rather not have them here.

I amused myself with the splash of paintings scattered on the surface. "Look at me when you talk to me," he demanded as he lifts my head with his finger. My mouth parted and my body stiffened from his mere touch. "Do I have something on my face?" he added asking. "Y-You have a splash of paintings on your f-face," I answered him after clearing my throat. "Is that so... can you wipe it for me?" he asked with a tender voice. "I can't see where the splashes are." I can now envision myself, looking a lot more foolish. He just told me to wipe his face! Different voices started to enter my mind but when my eyes found the Alpha's blue orbs, the noises suddenly vanished.

The Red Rave's car was armored, so the security decided to stay inside it and prepare to leave as soon as possible. The armor was not enough to calm Darren and Kath, who embraced each other and cried, terrified, living the materialization of the nightmare that had haunted them once. It also did not deter Timothy, who pounded the bodywork, hit the windows with the revolver, after firing two shots at the front window and discovering the protection.

All I see, all the audience sees, are words scratched with red ink—words that cover the original painting. Sick. Mental. Delusional. Psycho.

SOMEONE HAD DOUSED our entire front yard in crimson red while we were eating breakfast. Everything from the bushes to my parent’s windows was splattered with the foul paint with the words ‘Happy Birthday, Murderer’ written in harsh red strokes across the front door, like something right out of a horror flick.