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From White To Red
Some might say I'm a spiteful man. One who hates before he knows. One who would submit to envy before glancing at the one he was envious of. Jealousy abound? Perhaps. Perhaps not. There is no jealousy nor is their remorse. There is only retribution. Retribution most foul when in the presence of someone with conflicting morals about what true retribution is. Surely its to atone for ones sin. Although what is sin? We as humans do indeed sin but is sin as seen in ones eyes, virtue in another? To kill is to call salvation for the tormented soul, I've seen their misery and what better way to escape this abhorrent thing Misery, than through the freedom and release of death. This is true retribution, freeing them of sin before they can even begin to comprehend what sin they have committed.~The Man in Red
It was cold. Far to cold to be wearing anything scantly clad but low and behold there were many willing to suffer the detrimental effects caused by the biting winds that night. Myself included. I wore only a white coat that cold night, thin brown pants, and shirt containing more holes than cheese indigenous to Switzerland, complimented by loafers of which even a penny feared to touch. I was doing my usual round of shopping for things most, well ... I suppose easily classified as midnight spices to add zest to ones life. When I came upon my voluptuous pinch of paprika and purchased the flavors she would give to my bland tasting life, we made our way to my humble abode. Unfortunately, before I could add that ingredient to my meager existence to make it feel somewhat more filling for my starving palette of loneliness IT began to cry. She would begin to tell me things I would have rather not wanted to hear but I must say, if not for her, I wouldn't have become what I am today. A savior of the people. She told me on and on about the miseries she faced. The up incoming child she would soon have to bear, the so called groom that left her at the alter, the fact she had to resort selling her unique...taste to pay for the very ability to remain alive. I listened without contempt but rather remorse, sadness, and even dismay. She asked nay begged to hold residence in my quarters, that she would rather die than continue living her piteous existence much like mein own. She slept that night in my room and I the futon, my broth that I had wished to become boiling with passion, had rather become watered down into something of a witches brew left out to permeate and spread an ill smelling malodorous stench of despondency. I had decided from then on I would become aware of some things. I despised how this woman was suffering, how she mourned, how she sobbed. To the much greater extent how she hated herself and how I saw myself brooding in her. The kitchen knife went missing that night and my white coat had become a darker shade of red. The morning after, breakfast tasted of sorrow but also relief. That was the first day I saved someone from themselves and took it upon myself, to have a part of her always with me inside. As an ode to why I do what I do. Chaotic Justice? I deter such a classification. I am simply put a man who has gained a fondness for red.
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