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Elektra’s love was red. It was red as the color of blood, bleeding over her hands, spilling from her heart and choking her throat. Oh how her love choked her. It was a violent thing, the way it bled and bled for people she knew would never love her with such fervor.
Elektra’s love was red, the color of her mother’s old lipstick. Smeared color in photos and old forgotten tubes in her perfectly kept bedroom. Her love for her mother was the color of the blood that her mother passed to her, Elektra’s blood that her mother created, and the color of the dress her father said was her mother’s favorite that Elektra never got to see her wear.
Her love was red. The color of anger that consumed her when she looked at her father. The love and anger, both red, both full of passion, and a soul deep wrenching of the heart. So close and indistinguishable from the other at times. The love when her father praised her work, and the hatred when she saw him dealing the same backwards deals that got her mother killed. They mixed inside of her, bleeding and blooming. Love and hatred. All red.
Elektra’s love was red. It was the color of Stick’s cane, covered in her own blood as he walked on the training mat as she looked up at him, tears falling from her eyes. She loved him once. He was the one who taught her everything she would ever know. Taught her how to bleed without crying, to contain the love that leaked out of her like a cut.
Oh how her love was the color red. It was the color of her mission objective’s hair. It was red, shining in the faint street light. She loved him. She wasn’t supposed to but god did she. Her love for him was red, bleeding from her skin as she kissed all his old scars. He loved her, and Elektra couldn’t help but wonder what color his love was.
She loved him so much but she knew it wouldn’t last.
Not with the blood that covered her hands.
And not with his good morals.
She tried to make him understand. Make him see the love that leaked out of her, but he was just as blind to that as he was to the world. She tried to make him join her. And Stick. To come back into the fold. To the war. To her.
He stared at her in horror as the man who killed his father stood tied up in front of her.
He didn’t understand.
This was love. This was red, passionate, angry and full of love.
She would do anything for him. She would kill for him. She would coat her hands in blood a thousand times just for him to kiss her again. She wanted to share the blood on her hands.
They would both leave the other.
Both broken and bleeding from the love that cut bone deep.
Elektra’s love was red.
The color of the bright sign outside his apartment years later. The color of his hair and head laying against her skin. The blood on his hands that grasped her hands and a rosary.
He always had a way of making her forget about the blood that coated her hands. He had a way of kissing her sweetly, a way of making her feel loved. She loved him so much. He had a way of talking about redemption, of forgiveness, and the saving of a soul.
Elektra hoped she could have that.
She hoped she could be saved.
Be changed.
Be the woman that he loved.
Be the woman that would make him stay.
Elektra’s love was red.
Her own blood seeping into the red gloves of the man she thought she could be better for. The man she would change everything for.
Her love was red.
His tears falling on her blood.
And the last look of his red masked face as the red and love consumed her.