Crimson

Crimson.

Remus Lupin kept seeing the crimson pool that lay beneath his slain friend Dorlynda. He couldn't forget the expression on her face, the way the color left her eyes, or the gaping laceration that adorned her neckline. He closed the shutters in his bedroom window, and descended the stairs to set a pot of tea to help him get to sleep.

He searched his cabinet for something sweet to compliment his beverage, but all he found was a bottle of raspberry liquor. He took it from the cabinet and saw that its bottom was cracked. He hurried to the sink to get a soapy cloth to wipe the sticky drops from the paneling. He couldn't afford to exterminate his house for pests, so he had to keep the place as clean as he could. He returned to the cabinet to scrub, and as he made circles he watched the soap and water blend with the red concoction and began to think of the blood.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't wash it away. His frustration mounted the harder he scrubbed. Remus bit his lip and cursed mentally. She was sweet, like this syrup, yet had zeal. Her zest for life reminded him of the syrup's tangy flavor. He turned to look at the bottle and saw its contents drip into the drain ring. The bottle grew more clear and plain as each ounce of the red concoction emptied from its vessel. In his mind, he compared it to her once lively form. Her skin was beautiful, like strawberries and cream, but once her body lay emptied of its precious ichor, her skin became pale. Her form was now useless just like that of the bottle that drained in his sink. All the sweet essence and life had gone. She was a porcelain doll cracked and damaged like his bottle of syrup. Nothing was left but cold and darkness.

Darkness. What happened to the light and life that used to occupy his life? Where were the spring days that he and his friends used to let waste away as they indulged in wanton acts of youthful folly? Would that sun never shine again? Had life somehow condemned him to an abyss of pain and despair? He felt the room become stuffy and ran outside into the snow. He flopped down in it and released the flood of tears that threatened to make his heart burst. He picked up two balls of snow and noticed that he had cuts in his hands from scrubbing the cabinet so hard. He glanced oddly at the red streaks his fingers made in them and yelled out in torment. He'd have given anything to roam about as the mindless beast that slept beneath his skin. It wouldn't notice the blood or feel the loss behind it. Blood was a part of its nature. It hungered for it as a source of nourishment. To the former shell of man on the surface, it was the source of life. It was sanguine. It was thick. It was crimson.