Chapter Text
“How do you like that, little monkey?” That man taunted from above Fushimi. The boy spat out blood. Dark red drops on a gray floor. “Oh, no, that won’t do, you can’t bleed all over my floors. Clean this up.” The man walked away laughing. He would be back, but for now, Fushimi forced his battered body up. He moved mechanically to gather the cleaning supplies and the bucket, red of course, to clean up. At least the rag was white. He knew it was because that man liked to see the contrast of the red against the clean cloth. Fushimi had always hated the color red. He hated seeing the blood that man was able to draw from him.
“Niki? Are you in here? We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up,” that man’s wife walked in on Fushimi scrubbing the floor. She gave him a disinterested look and continued on down the hallway. A door opened and closed and Fushimi could hear muffled voices. They were pleasant, not the shouts that usually resulted from the adults being in the same room. Hurting him always made that man happy. Fushimi scrubbed harder. The floor was dull grey again, but the water in the bucket was pink. He hated being able to see the pinks of wounds on his skin that lasted for months after that man had left. Most of them hidden in places that his teachers and neighbors would never see, of course. The wife swept by him again. Fushimi was still scrubbing, if he tried hard enough maybe he could scrub the red out of his life. That man also saw red, but he loved it. Fushimi would give anything to never see any color in his life again. Black and white would be enough for him. He heard the door open again and felt his body tense. He didn’t look up, that would only make things worse. A foot hit him in the ribs. Hard. And then knocked over his full bucket.
“Aww, little monkey, you have to try harder than that to clean up your foul blood,” the voice was almost sing-song now, “I’ll be back to a spotless house or you’ll be cleaning up after your filthy self for weeks.” The man was whistling as he left the house. Fushimi coughed into his hand, no new blood at least. He scowled down at the mess. Would it have been any different if they had been soulmates? If that man had been able to see colors other than the reds and pinks of fresh wounds? He shoved the thought away. That woman also only saw reds and she did not delight in tormenting him. Life might not have been any better if he had been born to soulmates.
Fushimi barely heard the man’s laughter. Every ounce of his being was focused on the his ant farm. His project. It was burning. A bright red monster was taking away all his hard work and not only did he not have anything to replace it with before it was due, that man just had to be the one to destroy it. The one thing Fushimi had let himself care about. He almost felt the ants screaming. It must be agonizing to burn to death like that. That man held him down in front of the flames, he felt the warmth of the fire on his face, but he couldn’t do anything to save his creation. The red glinted on his glasses and Fushimi soon found he couldn’t see it anymore through his tears. Tears he was trying his hardest not to shed and the anger started building inside of him. Everything in his life had been drowning in reds from the moment of his birth. The red of violence, the red of passion, the red of anger and impulse. “You’re not crying are you, little monkey? My precious monkey?” The laughter swelled as that man noticed the remains of Fushimi’s tears. It only added more fuel to his anger. He hid it as he tried hard to hide everything from this man.
It shouldn’t really surprise that man, Fushimi thought, the way it all had to end. One night Fushimi just so happened to find his way to the gasoline and matches that man had used on his ants. There was only peaceful snoring from his bedroom and the woman wasn’t home again tonight. He calmly and methodically used up the rest of the gasoline and once he was satisfied enough of the area around the room was covered, determinedly set it all on fire. He left with only the clothes on his back and his schoolbag. He would like to say he never looked back, but he stopped at the end of the street to watch the glorious red of the fire against the night sky. Maybe he could grow to enjoy the reds in life. He probably wouldn’t meet his soulmate at this rate anyway. If he even had one. They’d have to be a psychopath to love him. Though only an angry psychopath would have this much red in them. Or was he the psychopath like that man and woman who also saw red?
A sudden alarm brought Fushimi back to the moment and he slipped away from the place he had once called home, he had a series of internet cafés already scoped out from when he really needed to avoid the man.
“Goodbye, Father,” he whispered into the night.