Red. Red is the color of my strawberry hair, the color of stained pure white snow. Red is the color of my velvet soft cloak, the infernal cloak which had been my only haven, hiding me from the rest of the world. Had it always been that shade of red or stained from all the times soaked with my blood. Red is the color of the blood trickling, pooling around me. Red is the color that the world turns as it begins to haze and fade away from me.
Maybe this time would end my suffering. With a small smile on my red tinted lips, I collapsed into the soft snowy blanket, feeling neither the coldness nor the pain.
Sensation flooded back to me, beginning with a faint tingling in my fingertips and toes. Yet, I felt no pain, but the uncomfortably bitter coldness of the snow around me. Warm moisture seemed to coat my skin, covering each of my wounds, yet still no pain. Moisture formed in the corners of my eyes leaving a thin trail as the tears dripped down my face as a feeling of hopeless overwhelmed me; I was alive, surely so as I could feel the snip of the wind and freeze of the ice of my surroundings. With a glimmer of hope, I wondered: maybe I was dead or I would feel pain. Nonetheless I was afraid to open my eyes. I was afraid that I was alive.
I knew that if I was alive, I would only suffer more. There never seemed to be an escape. The pain was simply inevitable and my freedom never within reach. I shuddered at the horrifying memory of the latest torture. My body uncontrollably coiled up tightly, subconsciously as if to protect myself, as I vividly recalled father coming towards with the silver sharp blade, it penetrating deep into my skin, as my screams echoed throughout the log hut. He laughed mirthlessly at my screams.
“Little Scarlet stains the ground red,” he chuckled. “Good for nothing child,” he muttered as he retreated, leaving me in my agony.
The truth was, he hated me for what I was, hated me for existing, and most of all, he hated me because I caused my mother’s death. Maybe I deserved the punishment, but in his mind, murder was too merciful; I deserved to suffer. Every day was unendurable and enough to force me to loose all will to live.
And yet, somehow, I found strength in my pain like no time before. Gently I press my fingers against the hem of the white cloth that cloaked me. The soft fabric split beneath my fingers. My hands shook as I wrapped the fabric around my arm, staunching the flow of blood from the most severe of my injuries. Gently, I opened the door to my room, careful to avoid any creaking sound. Father lay sprawled out drunk on the bed. I crept fugitively out into the biting cold winter chill. My feet left small footprints in the cold snow and the temperature burned my bare feet as I raced forth into the night, determined to escape, be that dead or alive.
My actions had brought me to this point. My existence brought torture and running away left me shivering in the snow. If life were not to get better, how can I be blamed for wanting it to end? Hesitantly, I opened my eyes. Moisture seeped from the corners as the warm tears dripped down my face. It was clear that I was very much alive. The trees still loomed around me and the same cold snow coated the ground beneath me. However, the red snow was white once more, covered with the fresh falling snowflakes.
Amid the trees, however, was a russet wolf. Rather than fear, I felt hope. I was much to far from grandmother’s house and besides home, I had no where else to go. Pushing myself upright to make myself more visible, I closed my eyes waiting for it's attack. When no attack occurred, I opened them expectantly, but the wolf was still there, standing at a distance in the trees.
