Red: the color of roses, the color of love. It was also the color of danger. Caution and alert were exclaimed by red. I didn’t see the danger though. My color red couldn’t be anything dangerous. Blue may have been the color of depth and purpose, but red was the color of passion and excitement.
The night we met, he was wearing red. Right away I was intrigued; red was a color I had rarely seen. I was told the color wasn’t safe, but he assured me that it not only harmless but enlightening. The color red was superior to blue. He held out a scarlet ribbon, and I discarded my blue one so it could take its place. Red was filled with possibilities.
We danced the whole night. I saw no one but him. The respectful gentleman in blue was ignored. We were witty, we were clever. Our words danced along with our bodies and swirled around as gracefully as our feet.
The dance did not end our clever banter. We met the next day. He gave me a brilliant red rose. I tucked it into my hair for the world to see, the sapphire roses received the day before lay forgotten. The next day he gave me two roses and the third day three. He never stopped his profession of love for me. Red roses filled my thoughts.
I tried to get my friends to come with me to see my rose giving man of red, but they stanchly rejected the idea and told me blue was a much safer color. I laughed at them. Blue was safe, but red was thrilling.
Time passed and my calm, stable blue sea was replaced by a raging fire. I was never seen without the color red on my person. It was my declaration to the world that I was unashamedly his. My clear, tranquil blue sky turned red.
There was something missing—something inside me that was not filled by the fiery whirlwind that was created by this new fascination. My head filled with a vast blue ocean I use to know—a memory of something deeper. A voice inside reminded me of the deep closeness my heart had known before that crimson flame came into my life, but I ignored it. I was devoted to the man in red.
He took me places I never would have gone, and together we did things I never would have dreamed of doing. The game I played was daring and exciting, but soon it was more than I could control. Soon there was no color left but red, and my world was consumed in a scarlet whirlwind. The roses wilted and died, and all that was left were thorns which pricked my skin and drew glistening drops of crimson. The color that held such allure was now my pain, my prison. Through my shame, I felt intense blue eyes watching.
A pale blue envelope—I thought I had lost it. It held a letter from the one whom I had loved before I was swept away in a scarlet frenzy. As I read, I realized I would give anything to wear the color blue again. I was reminded of how selflessly the one in blue loved me. How blind I had been by the consuming rush of red that I neglected to notice just how deeply I longed for that steady blue sea that called out to me. The letter gave me hope that I may wear blue again.
Red is the color of roses. It is also the color of lies.
My color is no longer red.