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Red. It's a complex colour, with many different meanings. Red signifies love, passion, desire. It's also a symbol of anger and fire and burning hate. It's also the colour of blood.
Peter was sitting on the bathroom floor. His legs were covered in goosebumps because of the cold, white floor tiles. They were starting to turn a dirty yellow, but he could not bring himself to care. He was curled up in a ball, with his back against the door, in a puddle of his own tears.
The concept of happiness was just that: a concept. Happiness was a ghost; he could remember having it, but when he reached for it, there was only static. The world had lost its sharpness, blurred at the edges like a photograph left in the rain.
So to conclude, he hadn’t felt happiness in a while. He hadn't felt anything in a while. Perhaps his heart had stopped functioning. He looked at the knife in his hand. Shiny and silver, its blade sharp enough to penetrate his skin, cut through his arteries and veins. He would have liked to cut himself open and rearrange his arteries so that his heart would start functioning. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. He traced the blue lines beneath his skin, a roadmap of failures. He imagined reaching in, untangling the knots of his pulse, and rewiring himself until the engine of his chest finally caught a spark. He'd have to settle for cutting out his arteries instead, and hopefully stopping his heart from beating at all. It was the only way out of this life.
It was his fault. It was all his fault. The cold of the bathroom tiles faded away as he thought of the flames he encountered today. They were a searing red, passionate and angry. The flames danced a beautiful tango, captivating him, coaxing him into the depths. He let his mind wander. He let himself imagine what it would be like if he just stopped moving. Let the flames skirt towards him, slowly engulfing him. That was his first mistake.
The luxury of death had distracted him too much. He failed to register the wails of the endangered girl before it was too late. By the time he had gotten to her, her body was still, her eyes were empty, her skin grey with ash. She was dead.
Peter had killed her. Just like he killed everyone else in his life.
As he stared at the lifeless body of the young girl, he thought about laying down next to her, about finally letting his wishes come true. But, no. He couldn’t be that selfish. Death was a luxury. One he couldn’t afford. He felt himself slip away as he picked up the girl’s body, depositing her to the outside world, away from the flames. He felt himself grow more numb than he already was as he watched as her parents ran to her body. He watched them scream in despair and agony, begging someone out there to return their child to them.
This was a sight no parent should see. A feeling no parent should feel.
(It was a good thing Peter didn’t have any parents to mourn him. Although he was sure that even if he did, they wouldn’t be as torn as this girl’s parents.)
Every time he closed his eyes he saw the corpse of the girl, whose name he didn’t even know. He saw Uncle Ben and Aunt May bleeding out in his arms. He wished he could say that it brought him great sadness or misery, made him feel immense guilt. But all he could feel now was numbness. He needed it to stop.
The heat of the flames left, with the coldness of the tiles returning as he zoned back into reality. He drew the blade to the skin on his forearm and applied pressure. The silver didn't feel cold anymore; it felt like a key turning in a lock. He watched the red trickle down - a slow, rhythmic leak that looked far too bright for the dull, yellowing tiles. The motion was familiar enough that he didn't have to think about it; it was mechanical, happening on its own accord. Normally the cutting would pull him out of the void, take away his numbness, replacing it with pain, but right now, he just felt himself falling deeper and deeper into the darkness, slowly drowning.
He kept going, trying to chase the high he normally got. A puddle of red spread beneath him. Red, like the fire that consumed the little girl. Red, like the dagger he pulled out of Uncle Ben’s torso as he begged him to stay. Red, like his hands when he held Aunt May in his arms for the last time.
With each cut, he fell farther and farther into the void. The overpowering red was replaced by pure black. He felt himself drift off. He was selfish. He let himself experience the luxury of death. As he lost all his senses, realising that this was it, this was the end, a laugh escaped his throat. Laughed because he had finally escaped the numbness. All he felt now was one emotion. Relief.