Innocence in Red Paint

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Walls hide you from the truth and the imagination is even worse.
But when the paint falls, who cleans it up?

Submitted: September 10, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 10, 2007



I saw at my window chair with a distained glare that pointed at the moon. It stared back. The moon had never seemed so white and untouched. It made me smile a dimmer white. I stroked my hair with a brush. My locks of oldened beige twirled around the bristles.

The room surrounding me - a bedroom - looked eerie and victorian, the wallpaper was peeling, spoiling the elaborate pattern of swirling mauve, the carpet was a mossy green colour with distorting shapes dotted all over. Even the mirror itself looked different. Like I could stare in it's depths for hours and yet not recognise myself.

It made me flinch.

The clock almost spoke midnight. The sky was dark and dead.

"Perhaps you should check on the kids" said my husband who lay half asleep on the bed.

I nodded, after spending afew more seconds looking deep into my reflection, then soon retreated out the door.

My feet patted down the hallway.  I held myself steady with my violet, silky night gown. Ii was still rather chilly though.

I placed my hand on the frightfully cold doorknob and turned my wrist to open it. The door briskly opened and I found myself staring through the doorframe- as if waiting for something.

My breath caught up with my heart and I continued my journey.

Why was this room so odd?

More eerie than mine.

It vexed me so.

So I carried on, and I turned around to the bedroom to check on my sweet child. The bed was untouched. Not one fold on the duvet. Where was she?

My heart began to elope with fear.

My pace hastenedthroughout that small apartment.

Where was she?

When I approached the tiny kitchen, I saw something on the floor: a spillage. Drops of red.

"No" I spoke. I raked harshly in my head. This is not blood, was my reoccuring thought. It is not blood. It was merely a spilt container of some saucey substance. Or perhaps she had been painting late. It was just a splat of childish 'artisitic' paint. It is not blood. And I know it.

After my long hesitant stance, I finally took a step - 5 to be exact.

So I did. Again and again. Again and again.

Paint has never been so brutal.




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