Red was her favourite colour.
I never used to have a favourite. It seemed wrong to pick one colour when there was a whole rainbow to choose from.
It was the red glow of flames filtered through smoke that we woke to. It was red fear that reached through our window and painted its warning on the walls, carried by the crack crack crack that had yanked us out of sleep.
It was her red blood that mixed with mine when we ran out of our door into the boys wearing red headbands.
There was no red in the truck they threw me into; not once they slammed the doors. Just the sound of whimpering and the terrified smell of the bleeding men they packed me in with.
She is why I fill my sight with red in the dark. I cling to it until the light comes back on and I can no longer hide from the cube of white tiles containing me.