I’m Sorry for Everything

I think too much, but that’s all I know how to do. I think about you, mostly, about the emptiness you left. People keep trying to patch it or cover it, as if it’s something to be forgotten. It’s as if they don’t know I can feel it, physical and raw, as painful as any cut I’ve gotten or bone I’ve broken. 

Did you know that red used to be my favorite color? It was the color of sunset, the beginning of the night, when I got to be who I wanted and not the monster they were training me to be. It was the color of candlelight, sprawling lazily over my books at midnight as I learned about roses and apples, washing away the teachings of death and war. 

It was the color of you, your laugh, your chaos. The color that held me when I ran away, the color that protected me, the color that walked me through the shadows and glares of your people. The color that chased away nightmares and curled up with me when the sky raged at me. The color that stayed with me.

Red was the color of hope, of safety. Red was your color. And it always will be.

You fought with others, I think you enjoyed it. Sometimes, I liked to pretend that you did it so that I would have to touch you as I wrapped bandages around your cuts. That was red, too, those moments. You told me once that you fought so that I would never have to again. You fought so I could heal others instead of hurt.

But I’ve always been a fighter. I always will be. I fought beside you because I needed to protect you, because I knew no one else would. Those moments in the alleys, the battle won, the sound of sirens slowly approaching, the sky just beginning to lighten. I never figured out which of us would look at the other first. Both of us covered in red. Sometimes, it was our own. Mostly, it belonged to the people we defeated. 

And I liked that red, too. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But it wasn’t that it was blood, yours or mine or somebody else’s, or that someone had been hurt. It was that I looked back at you, covered in scarlet and ruby, and I knew that we were together. A pair. A team. A set of twin knives, incomplete without the other. 

We each had other partners, other teams. As we grew older, they grew more important. It wasn’t just you and me, anymore. But then we would meet again and it didn’t matter if there was red, because there was you. 

I don’t like red anymore. I hate it. It makes me sick and weak. It was the last thing I saw when you left me. The floor around you was red, the walls were splattered with it. Red was the color of the flames dying slowly on your clothes. Red was the color of the sky. It wasn’t your choice. I know that, of course I do. It was your job, not to die, perhaps, but to risk it every night. And sooner or later, every gambler must cash out. 

I should have been there with you. I was mad at you, that night. A part of me wished you would die, a part of me knew what happened was my fault. My fault for leaving you alone to face the world, because it was our world, our city. It was our job to protect it, protect each other, together. 

One night, I told myself that night. You’ll be fine for one damn night until you learn how much you need me.

But you did need me. And I wasn’t there.

I hate red. I have had buildings torn down that were built with red brick. I have bleached red out of every cloth I can find. When I work (because I still do, though it tears me up without you), I let the red pool around me as I scream for you to come back. 

I wear black now, your brother says I am only making things worse for myself. But he doesn’t understand. He misses you, he knew you longer than I did, but he honors you by living. I can’t. He doesn’t know that the black is really red. That I wear it because it is you, because it cuts my heart and I like that. He might know if he bothered to look close enough, but he is as lost as me. 

I hate red and I hate you. I need you as much as, perhaps, you needed me that night. I have gone searching for red because that is where you will always be. Rose fields at dusk, wearing the crimson dress you liked all those years back. I stand there and I watch the red and I let myself be angry and broken and hopeless. 

Because red isn’t a promise anymore. Red is loss. A lost future. A lost moment. A lost hope. Red is the first color we can see, but when the world turns around like it has, it’s also the last.

You used to laugh when I said things like that. You always called me too smart. But then I would see you in the library the next day, looking up the wavelengths of light. At dinner, you would tell me about how Red Martians Invade Venus Using X-ray Guns. You’d tell me that each of those stood for a type of light. Infrared was your favorite, I remember that. I remember thinking about how it was my favorite too, at least it was now. 

But roses and sunset weren’t enough. They weren’t the right red. They weren’t you. The men I fought, the blood I spilled, that was you. Maybe if enough blood spilled, I would be able to force it back into your body. You would come back, and the sunset would have color again.

When I killed the first time, the blood was darker, heavy with the weight of a life. It wasn’t really the first time I had killed, but you always told me that it didn’t count before I ran away. Following orders wasn’t choosing to kill. It didn’t count if I didn’t choose. But this time, I knew what I was doing. The man was screaming and crying but I didn’t stop. He was just a common thief. He had only stolen a purse. I checked afterwards. Five dollars. That’s all he had taken, that’s all I had killed for. Five dollars. But it had been a year since my world had flooded red. A year since I had last seen the color. 

Your brother got mad at me when he found out. The man who had taken you in, taken all of us in, didn’t say a thing. I wondered if he was maybe a little happy, deep down, because he missed the red, too. 

There’s a new kid. They must think he’ll replace you. But his red is far too bright. He’s my age, which would make him a few years younger than you. Younger than you would be, I suppose. They must think I need a friend. I can’t hate him. He understands when I talk about the things that made you fall asleep. 

Do you remember when we were younger and you hadn’t slept for days? You told me to talk, about anything, about everything. You curled up against me as I talked about the birds I had seen. Eagles and ravens and sparrows. You fell asleep so quickly. When you woke, I didn’t talk to you for weeks because I was mad that you thought I was boring. You finally told me that you hadn’t actually been listening to me. Not to the words, anyway. You had been listening to my voice. I had been too stunned to hit you with the book I was holding. 

I’ve spent so long trying to find your red again. The red of criminals only looked right for so long. I made sure they were evil. Murderers, perverts, abusers. I particularly relished the abusers. I took my time with them, drew as much red as I could. 

Soon, that wasn’t enough. The red was just too tainted, soiled with shadows and demons. Your replacement was too bright. These monsters were too dark. But I couldn’t lose you again. I was just starting to bring you back. I wouldn’t fail you. Not this time.

The first time it happened, was an accident. I don’t remember it well. I think I was making a snack. It had been late or early, I don’t know which, and I couldn’t sleep (how could I without you to fight off the dreams?). The replacement’s birthday was coming up. He likes chocolate chip cookie. I decided I might as well do something for him as he had broken a wrist on patrol. I can’t remember how I cut myself. All I can remember is that I finally found the red I was looking for. Your red. It was the same red that ran through me, pulsing and beating like a drum chanting your name. 

Your brother found me the next morning covered in cuts. At first, he thought I had gone out on patrol or jumped through a window. But it had been my night off, and all the windows were still whole. 

I didn’t tell him why I was cut. I didn’t tell him why the kitchen’s entire assortment of knives lay around me, arranged in a circle, blades glaring threateningly at me, flashing in the overhead light. I didn’t tell him why I was laughing as I sliced, hand, arm, leg, chest, neck, to find where the color was most you. 

He yelled loud enough to wake the others. Our foster father came first, he knew best what someone screaming at seven in the morning meant. The replacement came next. He was blubbering, half asleep, and stiff as a statue. I looked up at him, your brother tells me, and laughed. I held up my blood soaked arm and said, “Look hard and remember. Someday, this will be you.”

I woke up in the hospital the next day.

They made me stop. They barred me from patrol. They took turns watching me during the day. I went to a different room every night. I told them I was getting better. That I was never going to do it again. But all I could think about was that red. I felt every heartbeat like your muffled call. You were inside me, caged and trapped. I wanted you out, not so I could be free (because I knew what letting you out would mean for me), but because you deserve to live so much more than I do. You never would have abandoned me, no matter how mad you were. You would always be there, but I hadn’t been.

They finally let me back on patrol. I stopped killing the monsters. I let them beat me up, egging them to hit harder, stab deeper. When the others asked, I said I was just out of practice. 

I guess someone finally told the others, maybe an escaped criminal or a bystander. They spent long hours locked in the dining room, talking about what to do. The replacement was told to distract me, keep me away. I ducked him, easily. A good detective, he may be, but I am by far better. 

Therapy. Medication. Even the Asylum. I listened to everything from just behind the rafters. The suggestions got more and more outrageous. Your brother. Our foster-father. The butler. Everyone. Even your sister called from whatever dumpster of a city she was trying to clean up. I could hear her voice. I think I missed it, a little. Missed her. She had always been closer to your brother (the similar age and time spent here was likely the cause), but she does care about us, even from a thousand miles away. 

In the end, Asylum was what they chose. I didn’t fight it. I know you would have wanted me to, but part of me wanted to be there. I knew I was crazy. I knew what the other inmates would do to me, me who had put so many of them there. But I went quietly. 

The others each hugged me for a long time before leaving me there, even the replacement. I held my head up, the way I had been taught, dry-eyed and distant. You would have seen through it. They didn’t. 

The other inmates were just as bad as I had thought. I was locked away from them, to protect me or protect them I don’t know. 

16 days. 391 hours and an odd number of minutes. That’s how long it took me to get out. I counted. All things considered, it was far slower than it should have been. But I was out. I knew the family would come looking for me. They are persistent, I suppose. And I wasn’t prepared to face them again.

Getting here was easy, you can’t throw a rock in an empty room without hitting one of the Master’s people. They put me on a private jet, listed as the child of an ambassador. It was a smooth flight. I’ve prayed the entire time that we would crash into the ocean or that an engine would explode, but we haven’t yet. 

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’ll regret it. I’m bartering with something I can’t control. Someone I can’t control. I’ve never done that before, but I’ve watched you do it. 

He’ll be waiting for me. I’ve seen him in person before, I’m one of the few, but he still makes me a little ant facing down a mighty giant. He’ll be waiting in a car parked on the blacktop, windows tinted and little ambassadorial flags stuck to the hood. He’ll greet me with a smile and a cup of tea. Green tea, extra strong. My favorite. I had been trying to recreate it since I left, to no avail. He’ll remember. His daughter will be there too, cooing over me like the big sister she had always pretended to be. 

His services aren’t free. I’ve never before done the bargaining, only the enforcement, but I don’t think I care.

Maybe he’ll ask for my life, I’ll give it (I’m already dead without you).

Maybe he’ll ask for my skills, I’ll give them (you were the one who believed I could change from what his people made me).

Maybe he’ll ask for my soul, I’ll give it (you’re the one who gave it to me).

I’m making a deal with the devil. Only, the devil will always abide by the promise, making one suffer for one’s oversight, but always abide. The Master will simply ignore it. There is no use bargaining with him, it doesn’t matter. He’ll promise everything, but he’ll do what he chooses. 

I don’t care. He might bring you back, he knows how. I’ll free you, if I have to give up all that I have and more. I don’t know if this will work. 

If we both end up dead, I’ll bow my head, let tears roll slowly down my face. We will not end up in the same place, that I am sure of. You will not remember me. But I will remember you. That will be my punishment, to love you and remember you and watch you, unburdened by my existence. 

If you live and I die, then I will believe in justice again. I will believe that everything may be alright, even as I walk the dark path down to eternity. Because you, my kind and gentle love, will be a part of the world. The night does not seem as scary when the stars are out, no matter how distant or unreachable they may be. 

If we both end up alive, I’ll hold you close and I’ll never let go. I’ll kiss your face and your hair, your hands and your feet. I’ll scream and I’ll sob, but this time with joy. I’ll tear the heavens from the sky and show the angels how I, demon spawn and devil, have stolen from them one of their own. 

When you see the others again, tell them I’m a monster. Tell them I’m insane. Tell them whatever you want. I will be far away and I will stay there, no matter what. But I will smile and laugh every day of eternity, in life or death, and I will know that I have done right, if only once.