When left alone, her thoughts wander.
When left alone, her thoughts tell her 'they're right, you're ugly, you're fat, you're unworthy'.
She doesn't even realize that she had locked the door and grabbed the blade.
Maybe, maybe this time the cuts should be made vertically, maybe then others won't have to suffer because of her.
She's just burden, no one really cares, no one ever will. And why would they?
She's nothing but a disappointment to them.
So she cuts. And cuts. And cuts.
Until the blood is dripping onto the floor, making a puddle; a puddle of crimson.
She doesn't know why, but the color comforts her. Maybe because no one else will.
But what she doesn't know is that the one who really cares is outside the locked door. Pacing worriedly as she bleeds out on the floor.
He was too late, he didn't see it sooner, he should've known.
Those are the thoughts plaguing him at night, when he's left alone and his thoughts wander. She wouldn't be gone if he had tried harder.
He's a failure, he couldn't even save his baby girl.
So he drinks. And drinks. And drinks.
Until he blacks out and the last thing he sees is her, lying in a puddle of her own blood. He never knew why that was her favorite color.
Crimson.
The first thing he sees is her face and for the first time in years he sees it. Her smile.
Then he wakes up. He's forced to face reality, the one without her in it.
But he can't. It hurts too much.
So he picks up the gun.
The wall is covered in her favorite color now.
Crimson.
