Red is a pretty color.
It’s versatile for sure – love is red, but so is rage. Rubies are red, but so is blood.
It’s a matter of interpretation, my friend.
For starters, I killed my mother on Mother’s Day. But it’s never just that, is it? You want more. The why part. I deem it interesting to note how the world, the jury asks for the motive behind a murder – the logic, or if I’m being brutally honest, the justification. The justification behind something as malicious as a murder.
But we all have it in us. That deranged human nature to connect dots, hunt for a reason.
So, I’ll enlighten you.
Perhaps, it was her own ethereal beauty, or the way the color red suited her. The way the ball gown swished around her frail legs, kissing her delicate skin. Or her maroon heels pitter-pattered on the wooden floor. And despite all this, she did not realize her worth. I wanted to open her eyes to the truth. By dressing her up, killing her and framing her body in that picture-perfect way.
She told me that red was her favorite color. I loved my mum. That’s why I did the deed. Not by choice either. She wanted it – the months following her murder there was an unspoken consensus between us that she was ready.
But I wasn’t, back then.
I waited – patiently, day after day, week after week, month after month. I readied myself. Meanwhile, her fear formed a shell around her; I could see it in her arctic blue eyes – similar to mine. One may argue it was selfish of me to keep the old woman waiting, but I’d say it was pure altruism. You see, I didn’t want her to die depressed or doleful.
I had to wait for her to be happy, bubbly and red – with love and affection. I knew I had to commit the heinous act when she least expected it. I secretly schemed, thinking of the perfect moment, the perfect setting, the perfect way to kill her. And dispose of her body. I wasn’t doing it to cover up. I wasn’t afraid of the cops or the eccentric, prying neighbor overly interested in Mum’s life. I was doing it for Mum’s sake alone – burying the little secret that only existed between the two of us.
The opportunity arrived the following Mother’s Day. Mum woke up, having long forgotten the promise we had made. Little did she know, tonight was it. It started out the same. She toasted four slices of bread – two for each of us, applied thin layers of jam and butter on them, and brewed coffee in the French press; I heard the gentle hum of Mum stirring the espresso – for the last time ever.
Soon after breakfast, she hugged me, squeezing just a bit too tightly. For a second, I thought she knew. I was perplexed. This wasn’t part of the plan. But my concerns dissipated as Mum shared the reason for her ecstasy with me: she was looking forward to a promotion that day. Of course, how could I forget? This was part of the plan. Every trivial detail had been taken care of.
Mum left. And I got to work. Planning is a prerequisite. Execution leads to mastery. I decorated the foyer with roses – cliched for sure, overused – but enough to please Mum. I ordered cake. Red velvet. With cream cheese frosting. It was white, and yet I let it slip. Mum wouldn’t mind a sliver of white, on this dreadfully red day.
As the sun started setting, streaks of crimson painted the horizon. I stared out the front window, followed the headlights of Mum’s Volkswagen chasing along the dirt path surrounding our house. I heard the roaring engine shut off, and the car blip as Mum pressed a button on its key fob. Her footsteps.
The main door unlocked. It opened. Mum gasped. A smile played across her face, her features brightening. I tactfully softened my voice and wished her ‘Happy Mother’s Day’. She folded her arms round me, planted her lips on my forehead. We had our very own mother-daughter moment. Her elation was contagious. I felt it running through every vein in my body in an attempt to cleanse my innate evil, but tonight was a test of my endurance. I couldn’t let emotion wash over me.
No. It was too late to turn back now. I led her to the living room, showed her around. The cake, the decor, the cuisines and garnishing were all props to set the stage. She fell for it. Then I brought in the costume. She donned the ball gown – blood red – without ever second-guessing my intentions. A ruby necklace to complete the outfit. When she clasped its chain around her neck, I took it as a testament to my victory.
But I must not get too excited too soon. The actors, props and costumes were ready; it was time to draw the curtains. Behind the velvety drapes, the hatchet stood, its blade glinting. Blinking. When Mum was distracted, I gripped its handle.
One, two, three…
And action!
I did it. Blood gushed out as her skull cracked. The cut was deep, but I had to make sure it was over. Today. So, I stabbed her not once, not twice, but ten times. Ten slits, wounds. The blood from her body soaked into the fibers of her ball gown, coloring her whole person red. Red – the color she adored.
The color I adored.
Part one was done. However, I owed Mum more. I had to bury her secret someplace where no one could access it. Hence, I took to the lawn, dragging Mum’s body all the way out the main door. It mopped and tainted the floor red. Her grave I had dug already. I shoved her corpse into it, using my own bare hands to fill the grave up with soil and gravel. I laid rows of artificial turf over it. There was no margin to make mistakes, there never had been.
I wiped the floors, leaving no stain of blood. Used every floor cleaner, every single detergent till it was all normal again. Normal.
But this was my new normal. My spree of murders had just begun. Though I am being modest here, undermining my work; for the people I killed were never ‘murdered’, they were rid of their worries and plights. No one ever caught me. Of course, they knew someone was the mastermind behind children being left motherless. Mums disappearing on Mothers’ Days. The police had titles for me, posters claiming a ‘serial killer’ was at large. I terrorized people.
They never understood. No one ever understood me.
This isn’t a confession, but a testimony that my life has been nothing short of noble. I helped those struggling mothers escape their dark predicaments. If I hadn’t taken their lives, they probably would have done so themselves, leaving their children feeling abandoned and unloved.
So, as I pick up my hatchet for the culmination of this series of deaths, I know that when my daughter finds my misshapen dead body lying on the sofa tomorrow, she’ll feel abandoned. And lost. Like her mother gave up on her. At that point, she should be aware that her mother saved dozens of children from experiencing the same sense of doom.
Sometimes angels are disguised as devils.
But I will not discolor your judgment with my speculations. I will let you form an opinion of me. Let the unhinged portion of your brain guide you. That was my justification.
The rest is for you to decide.
[Image Credit : Photo by Florian Olivo on Unsplash]
