Crimson Red

By Zoé Daoust

   Arian sighed as he looked up towards the sun, bringing his tan hand up to check the time, judging it to be about three o’clock. Still another couple hours before he could go home. 

      The sun seemed hotter than usual as he sat behind his market stall, waiting for the next customer. He idly wondered if perhaps the intense heat would spoil his goods. Could olives sit at such temperatures once picked? He would have to ask his father. 

       He watched as a man at the next booth picked out a bouquet for his wife. Crimson red, the colour of life and love. She smiled and blushed, laughing at her husband’s silly love drunk look. Arian smiled and left them to their moment. 

       Gazing around, he tried to choose the best person to test his newest sales technique upon. Orange bag seemed to be in a hurry, pushing past others, kicking up sand as she went, not likely to listen. Yellow belt had a list, too organised. Red scarf, wandered, gazing at everything, not seeming to have a plan yet.  Perfect, he thought. 

       “Ou-” The earth exploded. 

       Screams erupted around him. The earth shook from the force of buildings tipping over. Dust clouds flew up, choking those in their way. The wind picked up, pushing people to and fro, spitting sand in the eyes of the unwary. The sun’s ever present rays were blocked as men rained down from the sky.

      Arian stared in horror as his young neighbour fell to the sand. She lay there unmoving, as her dress slowly shifted in colour, matching the flowers she sold. Crimson red. The colour of life.

      The earth exploded once more. He stood in a daze, frozen, unbelieving. Screams and gunfire wove into one as his town was destroyed. His life uprooted and shredded to a million pieces. 

      He screamed in pain as a building collapsed behind him, dropping debris and forcing him to his knees. He stared at the crimson blood running down his hand as the world snapped back to reality. 

       A gunshot rang out nearby as he looked up from bloodied hand.

 His best friend hit the sand a few steps away, and blood poured from his beautiful skin, colouring the ground crimson. No longer the colour of life, but the colour of death. 

       A pale man stood in front of him, dressed in army fatigues, disturbingly bright blue eyes boring into his own. His broken market stall between them, olives scattered across the sand, bright green spots against the sand his friend had unwillingly coloured with his life. 

       The gun that murdered his friend pointed toward him, explosions echoing in the background, the dying screams of those around him oddly silent as the man pulled the trigger. 

       He was going to die.

By Zoé Daoust