An Ugly Color

With dogs—oh, those wicked creatures—and with guns—oh those terrifying things—this vile man hunts my brethren.

With these keen ears I was given, these fine eyes I was born with, this sharp nose I possess, I have heard the fire of the rifle, seen the suffering of my kin, smelled the sickly sweet stench of blood, so much like that of rotting flowers.

In his eyes, we wolves are mere beasts, devoid of thought and emotion. In his mind, I am a monster, yes.

But the true beast, the true monster, stands before me, in the form of a huntsman. For what else could a man who kills my brothers, my sisters, my children for mere sport, be?

For I tell you, this man, this dastardly fiend, is no saint, no hero.

Was it so wrong of me, to try and satisfy the anger in my heart? Was the idea of losing this human child, this future monster, and losing this old woman, a seasoned beast, so terrible to those humans, after everything I have endured?

I feel the weight burst out of my abdomen, I see the blood on the floor; what a beautifully disgusting color it is. Even as I lie here, dying, I must admire it.

A soft, fuzzy black begins to close in on my vision; almost time now, is it?

With the last of my strength, I move my eyes slightly to look at the three figures before me.

The huntsman, the silver blade in his hand, glistening as it catches the light from a nearby window. The old woman with a fearful, but sad look in her eye. And the little girl, cloaked in that welcomed, dreaded color.

I pity them.

A man, too blind to see what is right in front of him. An old woman, fearing the death that will soon come to claim her. And the child, with her whole life ahead of her, destined to become as despicable as the rest of her kind. Tears fall from my eyes.

Because, while I may pity them, I deserve just as much pity as they do.

I could not previously recall the name of the color the girl wore around her neck, but I can now. I cannot believe I could not before, for it is a color I know very well.

Red.

It is the color I saw many times, one that came after the firing of the guns. The color of the sky at dawn. The color of life.

As my life slips away, I can vaguely feel my body shaking with … laughter? Ah, yes.

It’s simply hilarious, isn’t it?

Red, the color that girl wears around her, the color of life, is the color of the blood that runs in both our veins.

And yet we mourn and fight and kill each other, without even realizing the
emotions we experience, the color that runs throughout us, is the same.

How hilarious our ignorance is. Why is it that I possess such keen senses, and yet have never been able to realize this?

Yes. In their eyes, I may be a monster. But if I am a monster, then they are just as much of a monster as I am.

That must surely be the truth of that detestable crimson which runs through our veins, tying us together in an unbreakable chain of grief and despair. Ah … what an ugly life it was.