But he still left in the end, vanished into thin air. As if he never existed, the paintings were never bought, the smell of spicy woman perfume never floated in the air, her fragile white feet have never been caressed by his delicate vibration of tongue. But her toenails still glowed in bright red just as he painted them. He’d put such a thick layer on the paint drips down like fresh blood. “Now that’s sexy”, he says, watching his work, eyes glaring with stimulation. She can feel her toenails snickering at her, bitching, mocking at her, shouting in her face that it did happen and could never be scraped off the surface of her brain. Days go by, she tried everything to take off the red on her toes, but nothing worked out, acetonum didn’t work. Even another layer of nail polish didn’t work, it just couldn’t stay on. Scraped with a knife, didn’t have the least affect. She couldn’t tolerant the exist of these red, glaring, crimson tips of her toe anymore, with a knife in her hand, she got tired, frustrated but tired. Eventually, she just stuck the knife into the slit between her nails and plucked them out one by one, like taking off caps on glass coka-cola bottles.
The red didn’t go, this time, blood red. Scarlet liquid poured out, trickled across the colorless sole onto the ice cold marble floor. “They’re still there” she murmured under her breath. They dried out, little ruby-reds. She tried to sleep, but the red toenails haunted her sleep, every time she closes her eyes, the blood redness of her nails came to scene. Like big red cherries, dripping with dew. She shivered, felt him slipping his wet tongue onto her feet again. She smelt the sweetening perfume, his rustlings of him walking. She couldn’t sleep, it was no use. It broke her pitch black world in half, she can no longer hide from the rays of sun that see loved and feared so much. Can no longer be the critic who collects the noon shimmer to store up for her own. She had to bear the blinding light, which she knows she cannot. Red was forbearing, but brightness was not, her eyes long pampered by the dim hurt and stings. Tears pour, she doesn’t know if it was for the pain, the dryness, her tiredom, or her grim of lost.
It drove her mad, trashing the house, hoping to find anything that can block the sunlight even the tiniest bit. And there they were, her sowing kit. It was her only solution. She had to do it, to put him away, hidden and buried inside where nobody can see. “A sacrificial practice.” she thought, just like the little Maya boys, intoxicated packaged and buried alive. She used to make her clothes, she was good at it, making tight little stitches, all lined up neatly. She took out the thinnest needle and a piece of shiver silk thread. Carefully, stuck the needle through her lips. The blood seeped along the tread onto her fingers. Carefully hem her lips together, than her ears, too.
The blood dripped every where, red, and red and bright red. She looked at the brilliant red canvas she had painted. The red oil paint seems so artificial and lifeless, she felt shamed of her own work, it wasn’t perfect, some how. Looking down onto her blood dyed hands, there was one only solution. Standing in front the massive canvas, slowly she sliced pieces of her skin off, they were white as china glowing blood pink, so beautiful. Dripping, she pasted them carefully onto the canvas, slicing piece by piece, paste by paste. It glowed, like the bright noon sun. She made her own sun. She was the sun. He died out, blended into the redness, ate in by the bloodish red.
With satisfaction, slowly closing her eyes, stitch by stitch, with devotion, she knitted her eyes tight shut, blood ran like tears, scarlet tears of content. Finally, she could rest in peace.
Inch by Inch, the white marble floor flooded warm. Dyed as red as her tears.
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