Zack Foster Fanfiction- The Color Red // Angels of Death Anime

Blood Bath

The metal clicks.

The bittersweet illusion of my brain matter splattered against these walls like an array of crimson roses lodges itself between the crevices of my mind.

No bullets.

And just like that, the illusion wavers and shatters into tiny silvered rubies.

"ARGHH!" Zack bellows. There is a force at my side so strong it knocks the gun clean from my grasp- it collides on the wall so hard it breaks in two.
"ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID?!"

I release the hold on myself that keeps me up. Like the broken clutter of taking apart a completed puzzle and tossing the pieces into a dark box. I melt through myself, evaporating down down to the ground until I am a sobbing, pathetically boring sack of flesh and bones.

"FUCK! THAT SAD WEEPING FACE OF YOURS MAKES ME WANT TO CUT YOU UP SO BAD THAT IT IS TEARING ME UP!"  Zack has gone past the verge of completely losing it. No flickering or holding back- the ruthlessness is present. The running and chasing and the shaking are far away, no matter if his teeth are bared or his towering form releases fire and chaos from him in all directions.

"Do it." I don't look up, for once I don't want to see. If I could gauge my eyes out and stomp them out beneath my foot- I would only be left with my hands.

"Look. At. Me." Zack is holding in a menacing laugh, the kind that grabs you by your jaw and snaps your head back so hard it pops.
I shake my head, no. Not with my mother's eyes.

I had the second most boring pair of eyes in this world, she would tell me. Her love was tough but she was always so beautiful that just seeing her was affection enough. My mother painted pictures on canvases and sometimes the walls or even on the tiles of the floors of her study room.

Paintings of beautiful women. Heads full of long dark locks that looked like silk and cascaded around the shoulders, rosy cheeks and lips. When she painted she always called for me. "Red! Come quick! Come look!" And I would drop what I was doing and flee up the stairs and into the study. I would spend hours watching her: soft face as she told me about colors and how she created strokes with the music.

Then I would walk away when she got to the eyes. For in every single made up portrait- my mother filled the sockets with a hollowing black as thick as burnt molasses.

"Look at me!" Zack's rough voice feels like a bucket of ice and sharp razors on my back.
"C'mon, baby, give me a smile." He is so twisted and ugly and rotten.

So rotten that the gore and violence intertwines greedy fingers through my scalp while another set peels back my eyelids- I slowly move my head up and meet his gaze.

Red eyed and swollen, I smile.

His eyes strain wide as they catch my lower face and the disgrace of a smile that is held back by strings of melancholy. He doubles over and presses his fingers on his closed eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as If experiencing a horrible migraine and inner ill turmoil.

He lets out a fiery growl as his arm shoots down towards me, strong hand latching onto my arm as he lifts me up like a doll and puts me on my feet. It snakes up around my jaw- squeezing and bruising. A numbing presence hovers over me because I don't feel anything.

"Zack no." Rachel is behind him, she cannot see me but I can tell she is pulling at the end of his hoodie. Weakly trying to pry him off from me.
He shrugs her off and when it does not work, he smacks a hand behind him- she lets out a tiny "oomph" and I just know she fell to the ground with that lifeless expression; unfazed and clouded.