The Pandora Index (Older work)

Red (1)

Vladimir Roche

"It's per-perfect!" I said, smiling as I stepped back from my latest work of art. It was a painting of a man, woman, and a young child playing outside a house on a wide grassy field. Of course, everything was colored a different shade of red or brown. I tossed the brush into a jar filled with similarly stained brushes.

"I need to go to the store t-today, need more water." I mumbled to myself absentmindedly. I looked at my food storage, which happened to be an empty cooler, "I guess, I- I need some food too."

I have a speech impediment that makes me stutter a lot. Talking to myself was supposed to help and it had become a sort of habit. When you're all alone in a little house in the middle of the woods the silence can be enough to drive anyone insane.

I stepped back from my canvas and walked over to the bathroom. I washed the paint off my hands, and inspected my reflection in the mirror. My eyes had dark circles from a lack of sleep, and my scraggly hair was matted down due to the fact that my shower hadn't been working for the past week. My chin had sprouted stubble too.

I turned back to my art studio. There were at least a dozen red paintings and half-finished sculptures laid around the room. I had a form of colorblindness that only let me see some shades of red and brown, other than that, everything else was faint greyish colors. It was incredibly difficult being an artist while using only red paint.

I slipped on a pair of shoes, a supposedly blue jacket, and a pair of black cotton gloves. I opened the door, stepped into the cool night air, and started down the dark path that led into town. It took me about ten minutes for me to get into town. I walked down the dark street which was only partially illuminated by several street lights. It was late, probably around midnight.

"I hope it's still open."

A woman wearing a red blouse, and a fat man who was obviously drunk were having an argument on the sidewalk ahead of me, probably about him being drunk in the first place. I pulled up my hood and maneuvered around them, but to my dismay the pink faced man stumbled backwards into me, knocking a half-empty bottle of whiskey out of his hand. It broke on the ground.

"Hey! Watch it, asshole!" The man yelled, he had a slightly nasal voice, and his words were slurred.

I ignored him and continued down the street.

"Hey, shithead! I'm talking to you! You gonna just walk away?!" He shouted at my back. He picked up a piece of the broken bottle and threw it in my direction, it landed about ten feet away from me.

I didn't turn back, he wasn't worth my time, and just listening to his annoying voice was starting to bring my migraine back. I get intense migraines very easily, and they were not pretty. Death would be merciful compared to the least painful ones I've had.

Thankfully I was able to get out of earshot quickly, but it was probably all in vain. I could feel my head begin to pound. I reached in my pocket for the bottle of painkillers I kept with me at all times. Even more to my dismay, the bottle was empty.

"Yet another th-thing to add to my list." I grumbled to myself.

I had reached the intersection the drug store sat on. I waited for an old, faded red pickup truck to pass. The sound of its squealing breaks echoed through my skull as it pulled up beside me. The driver rolled down his window, revealing a weathered old man, probably around fifty years old, and a younger man who appeared to be his son.

"Excuse me, do you know where the Grindale Motel is?" The older man asked, sounding as tired as I felt. "We were going to look for my ol' hunting cabin."