Writing: Moment In Time - Red

Red. Red, red red. The walls were red. Why were the walls red? Why was the ground red? What is on my hands? Red. Red, red, red, red. I can't see anything but red. Honey? Why are you dressed in red? Come on, get up. Get up. Get the fuck up! I gotta wash the red away. Red. Red is bad. Bad. She was bad. She earned her red dress. Just like her and all the ones before her. I will make them all wear red. You think me crazy, Detective? You think me insane? You think I do what I do for no reason other than insanity? You couldn't be further wrong. I will decorate this world in red. Red hands spreading the red. I will cover your life in red, Detective. I will cover you in red until red is the only thing you will ever see again.

The detective lowered the letter and glanced back to the form of a man, slumped against a wall in a pool of his own blood. It took too long to catch this man before he made his mark in history, he thought. He had received ten letters just like the one that was delivered to him this morning, but now he knew that this was going to be the final letter. He was dead, those poor souls of the women and officers he killed in his insane quest to "coat the world in red" were finally able to rest. He walked closer to the body and knelt down, his trench coat scrapping along the trash strewn alley, and looked into the still open eyes of the man he chased for the past two years. The lights from the squad cars flashed across that blood covered face, illuminating the sadistic smirk he still had, even after death. The man was nondescript, An every day sort of man, he thought to himself. He wondered if he ever walked past this man on the streets, completely unaware that a madman like this was looking right into his eyes. He lightly chuckled, knowing that would be something that this sadistic bastard would do just because he knew he could.

He filed the paperwork and waved goodnight to his partner. As he drove home, he was full of mixed feelings. Happy that a serial killer was finally off the streets, but sad that he had to go through an astonishingly long list of people to tell them that they can finally find peace. As he pulled up to the house, he noticed the door open and every light in the house turned on. He stopped, stepped from the car, and called the station to get uniformed officers there fast. He drew his service pistol and stepped through the open door, a chill running through his soul at the thought of something happening to his family. As he stepped through the door, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head that drove him to his knees, his weapon skittering across the floor until it slowed and stopped in a pool of blood. He focused his eyes and saw his wife and children, covered in blood. . .red, just like the walls were. He felt cold steel touch the back of his neck and felt something slide across his shoulder. With shaking hands he took the letter and opened it.

Now you see the red. It will be the last color you ever see, Detective. The red. Red, red, red, all will be covered in red. I'm not finished painting. I'll never be finished.

He closed his eyes and felt breath against his ear. The voice told him that he was clever, but not clever enough. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at his family lying there. The voice told him words he never expected to hear. The voice stopped and hesitantly said, . . .I love you, father. Father? He was in the act of turning around and looking into the face he had known since it was born, but as he turned, he heard the familiar sound of a bolt striking just before a bullet is fired.