Lady in Red

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"I've never seen so many people want to be there by your side.
And when you turned to me and smiled, it took my breath away…"

- Chris DeBurgh - Lady in Red

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It was a powerful colour, the colour red, its symbolism both ultimately good and ultimately evil. It was the colour of love and passion, a colour of eroticism; that is why women painted their lips and nails red, and wore red dresses. It was the colour of courage, power, strength. But it was the colour of evil as well, of blood and fire, Satan's royal garments and kingdom.

She hated it, Madam Red, the good and the bad. The good didn't seem that good at all. Nothing but another notch in her aching heart, another tear on her freckled cheek. But he liked it, said it suited her, so she liked it as well. If he'd said he liked the torn suits of the street urchins and pickpockets or that he enjoyed his evening tea and biscuits sprinkled with dirt, she'd have dressed all in rags and scooped gravel from between the cobblestones; that is how much she loved him. So she wrapped herself in red, in his love.

And it was warm.

She loved him. She loved her sister too. The one who was older, wiser, friendlier and beautiful. She loved her. But he loved her too. She loved him and she loved Rachel. And he and Rachel loved each other. There was no room for her, for ugly little Ann, Madam Red, in that equation. So she wrapped herself in red, in the passion that only she would feel.

And it was cold.

Then her pink knight came along. Not red, for theirs was not passion. Care, yes. Pure, unsullied tenderness, most definitely. Love…perhaps. But not passion. He, the one who ignited an inferno in her belly, made her heart race, made her love the colour she hated, would never be lost to her. It was unfair, but life, she'd come to realize, was seldom fair.

Remnants or not, her knight accepted her, loved her. And she accepted him, content, though not thrilled, with the path her life had taken. So pink would have to do. She wrapped herself in pink, in his arms and care.

And it was warm.

She liked the colour pink. Calming, tender, the colour of a newborn baby girl. Perhaps she would have one; opposite to Rachel's baby boy. And she would dress her in pink dresses with white lace, pink ribbons in her hair, and play in the garden, the whole lot of them, where pink roses bloomed in springtime. Where the sky splashed pastels over the horizon as the sun set, pushed away by a sea of stars.

But pink became red again. Red, like her hair, her heart, out across the cobblestone in a pool of cotton and wood. Her knight, who loved her for her coarse hair and freckles, and past she could not leave behind, was gone. Her child, the little girl in a pink dress -- maybe -- stolen to keep the red from spreading.

But Rachel was there. Rachel, with her comforting words, her persistent presence and planning. So she wrapped herself in red, to hide her pain, her passion.

And it was cold.

She'd lost so much. But life went on. She was alive, so she lived. She buried herself in work, in saving lives, and buried away the red anger and passion deep in her heart, replacing it with the courage to go on. The bravery to face the world. At least the guise of it.

But even masks fall off, and there it was again, leaking from her heart, a wicked virus indeed. The ones she loved, the passion she felt, engulfed in red flames of hatred, someone's murderous hatred. Hell fire, a stop light, keeping her from what was dear; the red of what she loved, what those she loved would have together. So at the funeral, she wrapped herself in red, the rage, the jealousy, reflections of another's evil made her own.

And it was cold.

Red was always there. Her hair, from birth, always upon her head. Her heart, always throbbing, always aching. If not love, than hate. She could not escape. It simmered and boiled, suffocated and tortured, a living entity always by her side. It was all she could see. So she wrapped herself in red, the hatred, the rage.

And it was cold.

They were red too; those women, who had all she wanted. Lustful creatures, courageous enough, wicked enough, to throw away something so precious. So she painted them red, painted herself red. Took what they did not want, what she lost.

Then he appeared, the red devil-angel. An answer to her prayers, who knew her red heart, loved her red heart. His hair, like hers, red. His teeth, edged, the teeth of a shark, which bit and tore, staining the ocean red, hugged by red lips. So he wrapped her in red, red cloth, red hair, red blood.

And strangely…it was warm.

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fin

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Disclaimer: All Kuroshitsuji characters and events belong to their respected creators.

Notes from Author: I was a little tired of all the Sebastian/Ciel or Sebastian/Grell fics here. Madam Red (R.I.P.) needs a little love too!

God, I can't believe how many times I used the word "red" in this story. Hopefully it had the in-your-face outcome I intended.