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Blue was their family color, their symbol, their sign. Blue meant peace, loyalty, and faith. Blue was the Dior Family’s color and they acted like it for a long time.
Blue, such an innocent and lovely color. It is anything and everything but the Dior’s color.
There was no peace in this family. That, young Darington Dior knew. There would be fights whatever room his parents were alone in. Beautiful glass centerpieces were regularly replaced because of the wars going on during their arguments. The priceless tapestries and hand-made portraits hung against the halls torn and shredded then tossed to the fire. There was never peace, only the silence that enveloped the manor after the storm, and those moments were spent with the maids cleaning up the mess the elder Diors have made.
There was no loyalty in this family. While Emerton Dior appeases the people and slaves his days trapped in his office, his wife, Sparks Dior, messed around with her business partner and somehow had gotten herself pregnant. Emerton was heartbroken and avoided his wife in private as much as he could for the past 9 months she had that being inside of her. Sparks tried to console her husband after she got rid of it but there was no repairing to what they have broken.
There was no faith in this family. Darington Dior knew of this as much as any of the staff in this estate. While his parents try and stitch together what they perceive as a perfect family, he knew they could never be one. They were damned from the beginning and no amount of time, patience, love, or whatever effort they put into this family, would ever be what they wanted.
Darington would much prefer red over the color blue. And if he were to pick what his family’s color was, it would be red. Red was the color of wars, treachery, and mistrust. This is what his parents are, this is what he believed is wrong. He liked red.
Darington found that red did not stand only for values. It also stood for attention, a way for people to notice him. During everything going with his parents, no one would bat an eye at the young lad thirsty for attention. So, he broke his springs, he twisted his pipes, he dented his metal, he broke his glass. Red came out of his body and people turned their heads and bent their back, just for him. Darington liked it. He liked red.
Red became part of his everyday life, and until he was 14, he didn’t know how dangerous red could be.
It was a scary noise that disrupted his sleep in the middle of the night. A trigger of a gun with a bullet loaded inside.
Bang!
There it goes again.
Darington covered himself under the sheets and prayed whatever the trespassers were carrying wasn’t anything explosive. That they weren’t anything capable of reaching his room and destroying his home.
A shrill shriek and another bang. The quiet followed.
The quiet was never good, Darington learned.
He climbed out of his bed and looked at the clock beside his it. It was 1:23 AM.
He opened his door and stared into the hall, looking left and right for any sign of life. He saw a maid driving past and he was about to ask what was going on, but he was only ignored. Frustrated and scared, he followed after her.
He was led to another hall where he could hear his mother’s crying. He zoomed past the maid to see the commotion and he felt his blood ran cold when he entered his father’s office to see his father’s lifeless body being cradled by his mother. His eyes were lifeless, frozen with a horrid look. The side of his head bled with his blood from the clear bullet hole placed perfectly at the center of his temple. The red spilled from the hole and onto the blue carpet, staining it with its beautiful color.
Darington did not know how to react. All he saw was red. Beautiful glistening red.
Panic rose from the citizens of Blightensburg, the town his father governed.
Emerton Dior was the city governor for a town called Blightsenburg. People loved him and never bat an eye when he started a new project or withdrew a promise. He was a great governor who led the city to prosperity.
When news broke out that he was assassinated, people started to demand justice and answers. Emerton Dior’s term was not finished and his assassination was very much unexpected.
Council Members were rushed to hold a new election. “A temporary governor” they claimed.
During all of this, people have failed to see how the youngest known Dior was feeling.
The night of the assassination, Darington stayed in his room, refusing to see any worried friends or any other visitors. He refused to see his mother and he refused to eat outside for any meals. His meals would be taken to his room and left at his doorway, but it was either left untouched or only noticeably touched by a few missing pieces. Darington completely isolated himself for a week.
By the day of the second week, he tore everything in his room. Well, everything that is blue. His blue curtains that draped gracefully behind his bed were torn and shredded. His fantasy-like blue bed was smashed and the cloth was burned with the matchsticks he requested. His books that held his childhood stories had their pages ripped out and torn and his blue walls became stained with his blood.
It wasn’t until exhaustion overtook him until he finally let himself break down and cry. He didn’t know what he was crying for, exactly. His father never loved him, he never paid attention to him. He would rather turn to his work than help him in any way. He never had any memories with his father; they never played catch, they never painted together, he never attended any of his academic ceremonies or anything that might even relate to him. He only ever remembers his father screaming with his mother. So, why should he be crying? Shouldn’t he be happy that he’s gone? That there wouldn’t be anymore screaming?
Maybe it was the reality that he never had a father figure in his childhood and he would never have one as he grow older. Maybe it was the “what-ifs” that haunted him and the possibilities that he would have actually bonded with his father if he had just been alive for a few more years. Maybe it was the shattering of what little hope he had for a normal family like the ones he had seen in TV and movies.
“Red…” he reached for the blade he threw away a few hours ago and it felt like a blizzard had swept his body when he touched it. He held it against his chest as horrifying images of that night resurfaced in his head. “Red.” He watched as the blade glistened in the light of his room and he smiled to himself, knowing what he just wanted to do. “I just… Need to be red… Like Mr. Emerton.”
“I know this is unexpected, but Darington, darling--”
“You expect me to accept this filth in the street you picked up as family?!!”
“Darington!”
It had been a year since Emerton Dior’s assassination. Today was the anniversary of his death, and to celebrate, Darington’s mother, Sparks Dior, brought Alejandro Santiago, the man his mother cheated with, and his supposed half-brother, Nicolas Santiago.
Darington stormed into his room and slammed the door.
Why should he accept his mother’s boyfriend as the replacement of his father? That Alejandro guy would never be equal to the man his father was. His father never loved him, so what should he expect from his replacement? And his brother… Why should he care for his so-called “brother.” His existence ripped his family apart, so he, in Darington’s mind, had no right to claim himself as his brother.
Darington buried himself in the red sheets of his bed, wanting to completely ignore the world and the noise it created.
“Red…” Daringon whispered as he gripped onto his sheets. “Just think about red…” he whispered to himself.
His father. Their fights. His death.
“... I’m fine… I’m fine...” Darington knew the truth and spouting lies in his mouth just made them more painful. “... I’m fine…” Darington slipped his tire under his pillow and pulled out a small blade coated with his dry blood. “I just… Need red.”
“Dammit, Nicolas!”
Darington’s tire collided with a vase that was near and it resulted in it being thrown across the wall, almost hitting Nicolas’s head. The little tween was thankful his step-brother had terrible aim. Darington glared at Nicolas as he held his red blade, his favorite.
Nicolas found out that he was self-harming himself a few nights ago and today, he snuck into Darington’s room and found his blade. Darington hadn’t noticed it was gone until lunch. He waited until Alejandro and Sparks went on their date night so he could confront Nicolas without their interference.
“I just want it back, Nick! I just want it back!”
“It’s not good for you!” Nicolas retorted, his body trembling in fear as Darington blocked the exit to his supposed freedom. Nicolas wanted to stage an intervention, and this was going terribly wrong.
Nicolas was afraid if he might look his older brother in the eye, he is going to be facing death. “Darington, please!” Nicolas begged, “we could help you get better! We could make everything better! Please, Darington! This isn’t the way--”
“I don’t WANT to be better!” Darington screamed. “What made you think that I want it to be?!” Darington had a manic smile on his face and it was as if the remaining humanity in him drained and only left a dry desert of apathy.
“And do you know why I’m like this? It’s because of you. You just think you could barge into my life and be some sort of replacement for my father and think nothing bad would come out of it? Nicolas, I never wanted or needed you!”
Darington’s gaze averted to his blade. “I ju st n eed red .”
Darington knew he was messed up in the head. It only takes knowing him for a few days until you could see the signs of struggle and desperation stir inside of him and form into madness. He made himself be an open book because then, he knew someone would notice and help him.
But no one did.
The only people who did notice either watched and tear himself down even more or participated in his suffering and made it worse.
Nineteen years. Nineteen damned years in a household built from deceit and mistrust. Those nineteen years of his life were comparable to being chained to the promise of River Styx then being drowned in its waters of death after a small mistake. It truly was hell, and he was a demon born from it.
He turned the TV on and switched to popular news. He smiled as he saw his face being displayed on the headlines with the caption, “A Star is Born!” He looked like an angel.
Red. Red. Red…
Darington pulled out the blade from his pocket and smiled at the thought of his next stunt. He was going to be red .