Red

She’s standing there, painting a message. In her eyes it is beautiful, it is art, it’s hers to share and she desperately wants to. But she is restricted, and to show the breaking of (at least some of) the bonds, she uses a beautiful crimson ink.

The letters dry on the wall but still she paints more of the story, her story. Even if she cannot escape, maybe her words will. She writes in free verse -- maybe because it symbolizes the freedom of her thoughts, maybe because she can’t find any words to rhyme. The ink runs a little. She blows on it to stop the blending of letters.

Word after word she paints, and her arms hurt from the strict horizontal position of the wall that is her canvas. She steps back a moment to admire her work, the beauty and legibility of the writing, albeit slightly smeared by her hands, which are clumsy from fatigue. She hasn’t slept for more than a few hours for many days and her eyelids droop slightly, but she forces them open again and continues writing, determined for her message to be done.

The scarlet on the walls is the only splash of color visible in the room, which is a blinding white. White military-style tucked sheets cover the bed, and a lone white pillow rests on top. There are no windows, and a painted metal door is the only exit. It’s a lonely room, with no personal affects to show any signs of life. The only sign that someone lives in the room is the girl herself.

She’s still painting words on the wall although her actions have slowed. She is bent low, nearly crouching. The wall is three quarters covered in red words. She adds a mark to the wall, and finally, her message is finished. She kneels tiredly on the floor, resting on her legs and staring at the product of her work. The lines of words aren’t entirely symmetrical, the letters aren’t all the same size, but she is satisfied. And happy.

She curls up in a ball in front of the wall as if guarding it, and slowly drifts off into the first truly peaceful sleep she’s had in a long time.

***

A man clothed entirely black walks into the room. A few other personnel are in the room also, reading the writing on the wall. The are all garbed in white labcoats. One woman runs past him out the door, which has been opened for the first time in awhile. He turns and reads the message on the wall for himself and scowls. Then he looks down at the girl in disgust. She’s surrounded by a pool of blood; her own. He nudges her head with a boot-clad foot. It moves and reveals a deathly pale yet pretty face wearing a peaceful expression. Her eyes are closed. His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, but instantly harden again, leaving whoever saw his expression change wonder if it did at all. He takes one last look at the wall, the blood drying and browning, and makes to walk out of the room into the white hallway beyond; but he pauses at the door.

“Hose down the wall.”

Eventually the echoes of his footsteps fade away.