"She isn't real, I can't make her real..."
Vermilion Pt. 1- Slipknot

There's red on the floor.

On my hands.

In her eyes.

I can't help but wonder about her eyes. I always thought they were grey until she confronted me. Then I realized they were red. Vermilion. What an odd color for eyes to be. Red. Like a rose.

She as a whole was like a rose. Beautiful and delicate but with thorns sharper than a butcher's knife. I say "was" because now the only similar trait is the color red. It's everywhere. On her clothes, on her pale skin, even in her pale blonde hair. The poor girl. Blood stains, I think.

I don't think she cares, though. She never seemed to care about her looks anyways. Cold and calculating and dark, with red eyes; that was her. And I say "was" because I don't know how much longer it'll be before she stops breathing and her heart stops pumping. She's dying and she knows it. I know it.

Her lips move but I can't hear her. Either she's not speaking at all (which is entirely possible, she's probably damaged her vocal chords) or I've gone deaf. I'd go with the former. It's a pity to watch her squirm under the silver metal that pins her to the hardwood floor, her stomach squirting out red with every movement. She used to be so strong.

Like me. I used to be made of steel. And then everything came crashing down, like my palace. The ground shook and the tapestries burned and the old bricks became loose and fell, breaking at my sorry feet. My mind reacted in a similar manner. My sister's death was almost enough to push me over the edge. I needed to forget.

First I left. I just ran as far as my legs would carry me. Then I abused; alcohol was my door to a better place. It's amazing how much you forget. Lastly, I met her. Pale skin and pink lips that I wanted to kiss oh so much but never did. Her red eyes still taunt me. I wanted her so bad, but she chose him over me. That was okay, I think, but I needed help and she ignored that. I'm sure they saw how broken I was. The tears and cries and screams at one in the morning were so painfully obvious. How didn't they see?

But I think I'm over it now. I can't always expect others to care, really. I guess I just kind of crossed a line and decided that it didn't matter whether she was with him or not, because I needed her. I needed- and still need- warmth.

I'm so broken.

My face hovers above hers and she's still moving her lips. I can't hear you, I want to say. Speak up and maybe I'll listen. But I know that even if she did speak I wouldn't care. I'd ignore her beautifully tortured voice just like she ignored mine so long ago. She makes a choking sound and the movement makes her arch her back. Out of the corner of my eye I see her torso slide up and down the blade.

"Does it hurt?" I ask, uninterested in her pain, just like she was uninterested in mine.

Tears run down her bruised cheeks and wipe away the sticky blood, leaving two neat streaks of pale skin. What a pityful sight. If my mind wasn't in flames and my heart wasn't shattered like old porcelain dolls thrown by angry children then I would suffer with her and agonize over her slow death. I would love her. But love is an emotion I let go of so very long ago.

The opposite of love is indifference.

And that is what I am. Indifferent.

Vermilion is on my lips now. I've kissed her. I feel her blood running down my chin; I lick my lips and taste the coppery tang of red. I like the taste. My tongue grazes the surface of her mouth, stealing some of the sticky liquid.

"You taste different than I imagined." I say because it's true, even if I'm really just tasting her blood.

Her eyes flutter closed and a small whine escapes her wounded throat.

"You sound like a dog. Bark bark."

She opens her eyes again and tears pour out. Her agonized gaze meets mine and I smile for the first time in many, many months. She's shaking now. I'm surprised she's still alive; I am practically swimming in blood just kneeling by her sodden head. Her breath is coming in short quick bursts. Tired of this game, my hand wraps around the hilt of the dagger buried in her stomach.

Grinning wickedly I pull the warm metal out of her flesh. She opens her mouth and lets out an inhuman shriek of pure, intense pain.

"You sound like me when I used to have a mind." I state, licking her guts off of my knife.

Suddenly the shriek cuts off and she is silent once again.

"I loved you, you know."

Once upon a time, there was a girl with red eyes.

A/N: So I'd been meaning to write a sequel to Crimson for a very long time, and this isn't it. They are two completely different stories and are not related to each other (plot-wise, anyways). I consider this fic to be kind of a spiritual sucessor or remake to Crimson.

In case you didn't clue in, the girl is Sheik, the other guy is Ike and the murderer is Marth. :) Review!