Vermilion?

There's no were to hide. My mind is a scrambled mess. Pain, in my mind shooting across my body and embedded in my soul. Splotches of blood, crimson painted on the carpet and in my pastel sheets. What has happened? And why did it happen to me? Is God awake tonight? Is he watching? Did he even care to check on me? Mother was supposed to tuck me in. Cover me with my pastel sheets, now socked in red. The ceiling has cracks and coffee colored stains that look like mold and smell like mold when i try to go to sleep. But tonight i wasn't sleeping. The cracks in the ceiling are taunting me. They whisper and giggle "Your like us too!" I don't think I'm crying anymore, but the memory of the dried up tears is so depressing. The place were the tears were feels weird, and wasn't Mother supposed to come in tonight? To cover me, protect me, in my pastel sheets? The shooting pain, the horrible pain, vermilion on my legs, is ever present. It hurts the same, if not more, as it did when the night began. I wish the pain was only echoed. But it is abounding, it is rouge and real and flushed. Indisputable and thick pain, rocking in my legs; in my bones. Syrupy and silent red, dripping down my legs. Some of it is already crusted-over. Why me? I hear the wind beating against my window. Begging to come in. Will some one open the window? Then will my wretched screams be heard? No. The window doesn't open. My hopes drop and die, like i wish i could. My screams and cries might as well be silent. They are unheard as my pastel face is unseen. I want to run, to pull my covers over my head and hide. But i can't move. It's as if the silent syrupy red, that drips down my legs, are barbed wire holding me down. Maybe, just maybe, its not barbed wire that holds me down, bleeds me out, pierces my skin, and makes me shout. Maybe, its fear that keeps me from moving. Or from flailing my arms. Maybe fear is holding me down. fear; a emotional load.






Then again, it could be the man on top of me.


Sorry that my first posted piece has to be so morbid. This has just been floating around in my head for a while, and I decided to start writing it two weeks ago. I know something this short shouldn't have taken two weeks, but i am an avid procrastinator.
This is open for interpretation , though I'm sure it's obvious what its about. I still would like to think people could get different things from it.
I was going to leave out the last sentence, because it's almost painful to read and i wanted people to guess at what the piece was about. But i put it in because i didn't think one little sentence could make this piece anymore, well, morbidly honest.
I'm using morbid too much. Probably because it's almost 4:00 am and i can't think of any other words.



So, criticism is welcome. Just don't be all "Your work is crap. Go to hell." Try telling me why you might think its crap :}
Any ideas for supper short stories [[as requests]] are welcome. And if you want a cookie, give me honest comments. Thanks for reading :D