Red

By: Heather M Chuon

 

    Red. My whole life is red. Clothes, food, lights. All red. Day in, day out. Red has to always be on. Touching my skin. In my body. The outside world doesn’t understand. How could they? It seems crazy to regular people. They may not be “regular” anymore. At least according to Mom. She can tell better than I. Who’s “regular” and who isn’t.

    A few months ago, Mom brought someone new over. I couldn’t believe it. It’s rare if someone comes over. “Tracking in their parasites,” Mom would say. Though, she would make an exception for my nosy aunt. But this time, it wasn’t my aunt. No. This time, it was a man. Someone she met from “work” she said. Someone who “understands” she said.

    Bullshit.

    I saw how he reacted when he saw all of the red in our apartment. Rugs, painted walls, light bulbs. Red. His eyes bugged out of his head. His mouth gaped, opening and closing like a fish. I was certain the parasite in his brain was going to shrivel up and slide out of his nose. It didn’t. No. He stuck around. Persistent bastard.

    Slowly, more color was added into our lives. Blues, greens, yellows clashed with the red. Diluting it. I hated it. How could Mom not see what he was doing? This infected man was putting us in danger. Trying to make us like him. Slaves to the alien parasites who needed hosts to live. Mom said, “The parasites are in cahoots with the Big Wigs.” To suppress us. To get us to do what they want. Win win. For them. And now, we have one trying to weasel its way into our lives. Take over our bodies. Our brains. The Red has kept that from happening.

    Whatever pretty words Mom’s worm boyfriend had been saying has affected her. She started talking about redecorating. Changing the light bulbs. Tearing down the newspaper covering the windows. Getting rid of the Red.

    “What do you mean? You want us to be infected? Like them?” I asked.

    “Honey… I was wrong. I was sick. I’m so sorry,” she answered.

    She wasn’t sick. They were sick. Infected. Parasites crawling around in their brains. Trying to worm into mine. But the Red. It protected me. Wrapped me in a warm shield. I would survive.

    Mom insisted that I stay with my aunt for a weekend. I didn’t want to. Didn’t like the tone of voice she was using. Sweet and high. Besides her lipstick and necklace, no red remained on her. She was still there. At least a little bit.

    When I returned home, it was gone. The Red was gone. She and the Worm got rid of it. Our home looked like a sterile model home. It smelled like one too. I ran to my room, needing the protection of Red. But it was GONE. They took my RED.

    “What did you do!?” I screamed.

    “Honey. It’s time we move on. Get better,” Mom said. With that sugary tone.

    The world was pressing in on me. The parasites coming for me. I could already feel them squirming towards my brain.

    I got a knife. Stabbed the Worm that was my Mom until it stopped.

    Warm blood drenched me.

    Protecting me.

    The Red was mine.

 

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Heather M Chuon has a BA in English and Creative Writing with a minor in Psychology. She has a love for all things spooky and creepy after realizing her inner scaredy cat wasn’t seeing beyond the darkness. Now she actively looks for every and anything that goes bump in the night. Even wanting to release her own horror content out into the world. When not mulling in the macabre, Heather can be found playing video games with her husband and obsessing over the cuteness of her cats.