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Red
by
Melissa DeMedio
Cigarettes are scattered about the floor. Burned patches adorn the furniture and the rug. Empty beer bottles, broken and whole are thrown around the room and alcohol is spilled on a blanket and the floor, with some other chunky liquid in which I care not to know about. I sit down lazily on a comfortable dark blood red chair, just waking up from a crazy night.
With an empty beer bottle held in my hand I get up and go to the bathroom, slightly staggering from a massive headache. I throw the empty bottle in the trashcan under the bathroom sink, than I run cold water out of the silver faucet. As the bowl of the sink fills with cold water I splash my face, to try to revive myself. I look up seeing my gray eyes blood shot, with my shaggy hair in my face dripping from some water that had splashed there.
I leave the bathroom, and try to start cleaning up my cheap
apartment. I see a phone number written on some lined paper with the name Ann
scrawled on top by the crappy moss green phone. I lie down on my fake leather
couch, moving the disgusting blanket, and try to remember last night. The only
thing I can recall is the fact that a girl with red hair with black streaks was
trying to get with me. The party lasted a long while too with, as I recall, at
least one-hundred guests.
I got up again and decided to go to my room and perhaps sleep in my bed. I open
the door and find a girl laying in it. I went up closer and noticed it was the
girl with the red hair; however my sheets, which were once white, were a blood
red. I look down, and see a knife on the floor and as I look I also notice my
blue shirt has blood on it. Blaring sirens come from outside, as I realize I’m a
murderer. I crouch down in shock remembering everything clearly.
I didn’t like the girl with the red hair because she was my ex-girlfriend. I remember she wasn’t invited to the party, but she was jealous so she came anyway and as I was about to sleep with a blond girl, who had given me her number the night before, my ex barged in. She tried to stab me I remember, but I got to her first. The blond girl left screaming from shock and drunkenness repeating I’m getting out of here and calling the police.
I look at the clock by my bed, 10 AM it says, and the whole fiasco had to have happened at three in the morning. As realization strikes I huddle in a corner, freaking out with angry tears. Ten minutes later there is a loud knock at the door, then a pounding as the police break in and take me to my new home, where I’ll always remember the red blood on my prison cell walls.
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