Red

They used to call this place White Palace.

As he enters through the grand entrance, a feeling of deja vu hits him as if he has an old familiarity– something between hatred and love– with the floor and walls of the foyer. Ignoring all the discordant feelings that this place induces in him, he walks towards the ballroom. The hallways that accompany him on his trip are like the familiar houses of a memory lane. The ballroom hasn’t changed since his last presence in it. It reeks and feels of that retro feeling, the one which he most definitely can't ignore, consisting of an enchanting encounter, a delightful dance and tragic tragedies. He wears nostalgia as a midnight blue and a well-tailored suit– the same as last time.

Midnight blue intertwined with a red gown. Hand in hands. Eye in eye. With her infront of him, every colour was a black and white hue except the hazel sea of her eyes. They had kept on with their dance despite the fact that the music had stopped.

“The music has ended.” Her smile was poison and pretty.

“Oh, has it?” His sharp eyes always got soft when he smiled at her. He probably didn’t even know the music had ended.

With her in his hands, every noise was a neglectable hum except for the euphonious din that rang in his head– the rhythm of her breath.

In such a state, even the roughest hearts were delicate. Delicate like the champagne glasses, holding the bittersweet red love arranged like glittering lights on the white tables of this ballroom.

With her beside him, everything seemed endless– her dress, her contagious laugh, the way his heart beated with her by his side.

Everything that seems endless awaits a tragedy to put an end to it.

It was a monster– or a human. It was so sudden.

He remembers slightly what he saw, a face with hunger and hatred etched upon its features. Dark eyes of death. And it was as if his presence made the entirety of the place grow hazy and dark. The champagne spilled as the glass shattered. Blood spilled as throats were slit.

Blood and champagne intertwined on the dance floor and on the walls as if they were two lovers hand in hand.

He saw her the last time. The hazel life of her eyes was a deadly red of confusion and fright. Pain hit his legs too before he was able to comprehend. He forced himself to stand, to protect her somehow, to fix her– to get himself together.

The next thing was black–and the familiar red.

They call this the Red Palace now.

The subtle change in the name of this Palace has also changed the entire imagery of it.

Everything about this place is the same– the white walls, the white furniture and the white everything. However, for someone who knows what has happened here, the whites always seemed to be discoloured by blood red and champagne red.

With the grace of this place, co-exists the malice that the memories of the walls behold.

Why is he even here? To live the tragedy again?

He was a sixteen year old kid. His parents were corpses lying on the floor. His brother laid on the couch, his eyes wouldn’t blink either. He screamed his lungs out, as if his shouts would pour back life into them. That was the first time he had lost someone.

With the grace of him, co-exists the malice that his memories behold.

He focuses on why he is here. To fight back. To finish the chain of tragedies his life is surrounded by.

For him, a voice speaks inside his head. A voice so familiar yet so anonymous. He moves on through the evil hallways. This place is now abandoned but it is tidy. The chandeliers are lit. He is here.

He turns to a staircase. It is beautifully lined by mirrors on its one end. As he moves up the stairs he looks right at the figure that moves up with him. A figure he recognizes so dearly.

Hello there.

A figure he hates so dearly.

As he moved across the ballroom that night, the knife in his hands dripped red. The girl he loved so dearly can do nothing but stare. But what held that knife was not him. He told himself to stop, he pushed and threw himself on the tables– on the champagne glasses. But the red inside him was too powerful, too malevolent. He stopped himself eventually with a stab on his own leg, only to realise everything he had just done.

Black.

He was a sixteen year old kid. “Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me. Love me.” Each stab to his mother's body was accompanied by a phrase.

Black.

Love is not something you deserve, he had told him.

He looks at him now and how well he knows the black eyes, the hurt face, tensed eyebrows, the charming smile.

Suddenly, the Palace is not beautiful anymore. The chandeliers are not lit. The walls are not white but a rusty grey. Dust dances. The walls are cracked and vines grow out of the roof like an insidious poison. He is here.

He feels himself suffocating. Another soul pushes inside him. The red.

You never deserved love.

“I was never loved.”

You will never love.

“I still love her.” Maybe that is why he came back to this place.

You killed her.

“ You killed her.”

Parents, who could never give you anything except burden you with expectations a frail soul is never supposed to carry. Lovers who broke your heart. And a woman you fell so hard for, you were ready to destroy yourself for her sake. You killed no one but your own problems.

“Shut up!” He roars.

Embrace me.

“But, you hurt me.” He breathes.

I heal you.

“Heal?”

Everytime you are weak, I come to you, I fix things for you. That is how you heal. You take away from others what they keep close to themselves, their agony is your happiness. Their fear is your bliss.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

That is no reason.

“GET OUT OF ME!”

I am you.

He cries. He drops down on the stairs. He cries. He has never cried. Tears never meant alot. All he ever wanted was love. Why was he every time he thought maybe he meant something, happiness meant something.

Don’t you want to be happy?

This is not his voice. An embrace surrounds his body, a pair of arms pick him up and drag him up the staircase.

A beautiful terrace, the largest one of this palace. It suspends over the edge of a mountain, giving a view so mesmerising.

The hands gently carry him to the railings that guard the border of the terrace. He obediently lifts himself and stands dangerously on the railings. His balance is as if he stands on the sharp end of a knife.

What are you doing? The red spoke.

I love you. The red dress spoke.

“I was always loved.”

Their first night was spent on a terrace. Midnight, midnight blue, a red moon and a red gown. A feeling told him that he would be back with her again at this place. With her, even death was loveable.

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