My first word was red. My first memory was red. My favorite color was red, my first crush loved red. I was the human embodiment of red.
Then a gunshot, a cold concrete ground. And my favorite color came pouring out of my head.
I see my red on him.
Then I could see red on others too. Except now I had a name for it.
Blood. I bled. Bleeding blood. My brother shot me in the head. The physical and emotional stress that would cause anyone to shut down.
And shut down I did. Both emotionally and physically.
I woke up that morning a silent crying mess, long enough to delay the inevitable shot for a few days.
The second time it happened, it was ia different time, but the same place, and a circumstance I won't ever remember. But I know it was him in the end.
It was the time I saw blood after all. My first attacker and victim. Then I could see more blood on other people. It's not mine.
Step left, left, right. Know the bullets ricochet twice in the metal and concrete basement. Step out of the back room, close door, step away from the stairs. One hits a pipe laid out in the open. Don't run forward. Fire extinguisher next to the washing machine. Grab it and hold...
A small explosion knocked the wall down and started a fire that started to spread quickly. My brother called my name. I put out the fire.
Practice makes perfect. Death makes mistakes numb.
Fire Department, Police, Therapists. They were found necessary for the incident. Brother was arrested. Mother was distraught. Father gave his condolences. He was my half brother but the divide hardly existed. He said he understood how I felt.
"Has your brother tried to murder you?" He fell silent.
Neurologist, Psychologist, Psychiatrist. Found necessary to jump start the emotional and creative part of my brain. Sociopathic tendencies were observed and documented. Visible triggers being guns, and blood. Prescribed medication to be put in deeper dreamless sleep, and remove hallucinations from the mind.
Blood isn't a hallucination. It is very real. I can see it on the doctors who failed to save their patients. The murderers who kill for their petty arguments. The bodies in all of their dead forms. Completely red.
Mother what did I do wrong? Your first son imprisoned, because of me...
I see, I see... However mother I do not like being dead. Never should have had me?
Well you're stuck with me. Unless you make the same mistake he did. Killing me.
This isn't a game mother, put down the knife. Or rather keep it up.
If am the son you never wanted replace me with my younger brother. I always was jealous of him.
My half-brother was jealous of me? You must be confused. A dead man is justified by no action and no law. My soft malleable head would have been on the floor, your basement painted red.
This isn't a game mother, get away from me. Or rather come closer.
He was a fool. A clown. One you took for granted. Do not blame me for his near death and mine. Even if it is technically my fault.
Technically I died. Technically he killed me. Technically first degree murder. Technically self defense. Technically he felt regret. Only after the shooting was finished.
This isn't a game mother, don't try and cut me. Or rather you have been cut.
Oh dear. I've cut mother. In her struggle to hurt me, she killed me. Then I hurt her.
I am a heathen but god won't forgive you for hurting your son like that. It's why I'm still alive, relatively unhurt.
This isn't a game mother, you should have listened.
Or not. You can't avenge the guilty like this. No one but me was hurt until you tried and hurt yourself.