Pretty in Red

"You look pretty in red." That was what I told her the night I met her.

Her dress was a deep crimson, curling around her body. It wasn’t just the color — it was the way she moved. As if no one could touch her — as if nothing could.

I fell for her then. I fell harder than I ever thought possible.

I invited her to dance, and she agreed. I was not much of a dancer — and when I told her — she giggled and told me it would be okay as long as I didn't step on her toes. I stepped on them anyway, and she giggled even more.

She was an angel, and my heart could not stop beating. For the first time, I realized why people swore they would do anything in the world for their lover, even if it meant their death.

We created a life, and I felt as though it was a dream that I could never wake up from.

She cared about me too — I know she did. She wasn't the sort of woman who pretended. When she smiled at me, when she laughed at my awful jokes, when she whispered that she loved me in the middle of the night with her head on my chest — it was true.

We had our moments — the sort you hold onto when all else is unraveling. Sloppy, sheet-wrapped mornings, midnight rides with windows down, off-key singing along to songs we barely knew.

She'd steal fries from my plate with that sly grin of hers, and I'd pretend to be annoyed just to see her laugh. She enjoyed stargazing too, though she couldn't name a single constellation. I made some up just to make her laugh. She said my eyes were like the night sky — limitless and safe. Our life was uncomplicated and peaceful.

I vowed to protect her. Always.

And for a while, I did.

She had a habit of finding the good in people — even the ones who didn’t deserve it. She believed in second chances. Maybe that’s why she stayed with me, even when the world felt too heavy. Even when I wasn’t enough.

One night, after a long day, I wandered into a bar I’d never seen before. I wasn’t even sure why I was there. But the outer shape of the bar looked cool and unique, so it attracted my attention.

A man sat next to me, sharp-eyed and smooth-talking. He asked about her — he knew her name. He said he used to know her and that she wasn’t who I thought she was. He said things I didn’t want to believe, but his words wormed into my mind, planting doubt where love used to be.

He offered me a drink; said it would knock some sense into me. I didn't question it. I just needed the pain to stop. His words echoed in my mind — even though I was certain that he was lying.

As soon as I drank it, the world became blurry. My head was spinning. But the man’s words wouldn’t stop.

I wasn’t going to let his words win.

"You're wrong!" I shouted into the night. "She loves me. I know she does. You don’t know her like I do!"

The wind swallowed my voice, but I didn’t stop.

"She’s not a liar — you are! You don’t get to tell me who she is! She’s mine, and I’m hers. No matter what you say!"

I was gasping, my throat raw and burning, but the words felt right. Real. I wasn’t going to let him take her away from me.

And when I came back home, she was there — waiting for me, dressed in white. She looked like an angel. My angel.

"Hey," she said softly. "I was worried."

Her voice was soft and familiar, but it felt distant, as if it were coming from far, far away. The man's voice stuck in my head.

*She's lying to you. She's going to leave you.*

I blinked fast, trying to see. The room around me was whirling.

She extended her hand to me, fear in her eyes. "What's wrong? You're scaring me."

I loved her. I loved her more than anything. But the fear in her voice was wrong. It sounded like betrayal.

"You're leaving me," I told myself, my voice barely a breath.

"What? No. I'm here. I love you. I'm not going anywhere," she vowed, her voice shaking.

The man's voice thundered in my head, louder than hers.

Liar.

I didn't know the knife was in my hand until it was too late.

Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted in a silent scream. The white dress flowered red, the color spreading too fast, too far. She fell into me, her body dragging us both to the ground. Her head lay on my chest, just as she always did when she was exhausted.

The world came back together. My head cleared. The sound stopped.

I looked down and saw her — really saw her.

She wasn't lying. She wasn't leaving. She loved me. And I killed her.

My throat closed; my heart shattered into something beyond agony. My tears fell onto her white, blood-speckled cheeks.

Her head lay on my shoulder; her eyes stayed open.

I never meant to hurt her. I loved her. I still love her.

The guy was a liar. The guy who gave me this drink — he took everything from me. What was in this drink? Why would he do such a thing? How did he know her, anyway?

My hand moved over my pocket, to grab my phone, and felt a piece of paper crease beneath my fingertips. I pulled it out with shaking fingers. It was a torn, dirty letter.

My breathing arrested as I read it.

"You weren’t worthy of her. She was mine first. Now, she’s no one’s."

My chest burned, fury and grief tangled together until I couldn’t tell them apart. He used me. Turned me into his weapon.

But I’m the one who killed her.

She was mine. She’ll always be mine.

I rocked her gently, as if I could still protect her from this — from me.

"You look pretty in red," I breathed, glancing at her dress deepening in red with her blood, as my voice cracked and shook.