Paint it Red

by Melody Leigh

  Within the hour, he finished the first coat on the wall connecting to the kitchen, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He was certainly far from done, but it felt good to finally be accomplishing something.

  Mira stepped in from the kitchen, the smell of ribs and potatoes following her, and leaned against the open door frame.

  Padrik frowned at her silence.

  “You got something to say, or are you just gonna stand there glaring daggers?”

  Mira wiped her hands on her apron, the rib and barbeque sauce staining the white cloth with a color that reminded Padrik of old, dried blood.

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  Padrik rolled his eyes and coated his brush in more paint to fill in any holes.

  “You should’ve been more specific.”

  “You should know me better.”

  “I can’t read your mind, Mira.”

  Mira laughed, but it came out more like a saddened choke. “You don’t have to ‘read my mind.’ We’re been married for ten years, one would think you’d at least know my favorite color.”

  Padrik’s grip around the brush tensed, and his strokes came out sloppy.

  “You didn’t say to buy your favorite color, you said to buy ‘something bold.’ So since this is your fault, why don’t you just drop it?”

  “My fault?! Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “Why should I have to ask every little specific of your damn orders? I didn’t even want to paint this stupid wall!”

  Frustrated, Mira stormed up to Padrik and reached for the brush in his hand, starting a tug-o-war for grip on it.

  “Fine! Don’t do it then! Go and watch TV or get drunk with your friends and be as useless as you always are!”

  Padrik tried to grab the brush back, specks of paint flinging at his face as they pulled it back and forth between them.

  “Let go!” he yelled.

  “No, YOU let go!”

  Mira gave a final yank on the brush, ripping it out of his hand.

  His mind buzzing, Padrik’s eyes glazed over and he reached down for an empty paint bucket, lifting it up and slamming it against Mira’s head in anger. Thrown back, Mira crashed against the wall and her grip on the paintbrush gave out, the tool falling to the ground.

  “Shit…” she groaned, touching her head. Bracing against the wall, she let herself inch down to the floor until she sat against the paint stained newspapers.

  Vision blurred from rage, Padrik picked up a half-full bucket, hovering over Mira as she whined about her head. He dropped down in front of her, leaving her caged between himself and the wall, and brought the tip of the bucket to her mouth, heaving it up and pouring it down her throat.

  Choking, Mira tried to push the bucket away, but weak from the pain in her head, couldn’t push Padrik off. Coughing as the paint burned her throat, she kicked him in the stomach with her heels, knocking Padrik back against the floor.

  Blinking harshly, Padrik sat up, but when he looked at Mira again, he found no evidence of his attempted drowning. Her mouth was clean, and she still held her head, groaning against the wall.

  “You hit me! What the hell are you thinking, Padrik?!”

  He stared at her, open-mouthed, horrified at what he’d imagined and regretful that the first hit had been real, and yet simultaneously disappointed that he’d awoken yet again to find Mira still in his life.

  Was he doomed to some kind of hell in which he’d keep freeing himself, only to discover he would never be rid of her?

  “I-I…”

  Padrik stuttered, pushing himself up off the ground and running out of the room.

  * * *

  That night, Padrik’s office was dark, the man in question far from home itself.

  A shadow appeared over his desk, illuminated only by the low glow of a flashlight. It scanned over his desk, from each corner to each drawer, until a hand reached out to the middle drawer, just above the chair, and found it locked.

  Gripping the handle of the weak old drawer of a weak old musty desk, the hand yanked and forced it open, hovering the light over the contents found within.

  Padrik’s journal lied inside, the only item left in the room not covered by a thick layer of dust. It was lifted out of the drawer and dropped onto the desk, flipped open and pilfered for secrets.

  Upon seeing her name, written over and over in jagged, red ink, Mira lifted the journal, her eyes widened in sickness and shock.

  She read page after page of Padrik’s bloody fantasies, filled with a feeling of betrayal she hadn’t known she was capable of.

  * * *

  The next morning, Padrik stumbled into the dining room after slamming the door to the entryway, his actions delayed and his breath reeking of alcohol.

  The room was still a mess from his and Mira’s fight, and he felt a wave of nausea at the sight, bracing himself against the wall to fight it off.

  Mira sat on the other side of the room, waiting patiently at the crowded dining table, Padrik’s journals neatly lined up before her. She wore her best heels and her favorite dress, as if to mock him with what he so desperately yearned to lose.

  “Mira?” he called out. “What are you…?”

  Padrik fumbled his way over to the table, tripping over his feet. His skin a sickly pale color and his eyes bloodshot, they widened seeing his journals exposed in such an orderly fashion, as if they were recipes to be looked over instead of gruesome dreams about his wife’s deaths.

  “How did you…?”

  “I went into your office last night.”

  Mira’s voice was calm, her tone matter-of-fact. It chilled Padrik to the bone.

  “Mira, I can explain.”

  “You didn’t come back. I just wanted to be around you.” It sounded so rational, coming out of her mouth. How could she be so calm?

  Padrik felt another wave of nausea.

  “I thought I’d feel better, just being in your office.”

  “You don’t understand…”

  “You spend so much time in your office. ‘What could he be doing in there?’ I would ask myself. ‘I guess it makes him happy.’ I used to make you happy.” She picked up one of his journals and scanned it, devoid of any emotion.

  “‘I wrapped my hands around her throat and squeezed, watching the life drain out of her eyes.’” She put the journal back down, right in place with the others. “I guess you’ve found something new to satisfy yourself with.”

  “Mira—”

  “What? Are you going to tell me someone else wrote these? That you didn’t mean them? What’s the point? We both know you did.”

  Padrik slammed his hands on the table, his pulse quickening.

  “Fine! You’re right. I wrote them. Of course I wrote them! And you want to know why?”

  Mira met his eyes, her expression tight.

  “I’m sick of you!” Padrik screamed. “Always ordering me around, acting like you’re better than me! But I’m stuck! As you so eagerly like to remind me, I don’t have a job. And I knew you’d never go for a divorce!”

  “So what are you saying, Padrik? You don’t love me anymore?”

  Padrik sighed and broke their contact, turning his back to her.

  Coward.

  “I don’t know, Mira… We don’t make each other happy.”

  “Don’t speak for me.”

  “What?” Padrik laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Are you saying I DO make you happy?”

  “Maybe not now. But you used to.”

  Padrik huffed.

  “I still love you,” Mira continued.

  “It doesn’t matter. Being around you is bringing out this darkness in me that, quite frankly, scares the hell out of me. We’re not good for each other.”

  “You promised we’d be together forever,” Mira threw back. Her voice caught as she spoke, a sense of desperation to her words.

  Padrik remained silent, unable to look back at her. Hea
rtbroken, Mira glanced at the paint scraper, left on the table from yesterday, and inched her hand towards it. Her fingers gripped onto the handle, wrapping around it as she silently lifted it into the air and stood up.

  “What kind of wife would I be if I let you break that promise?”

  Padrik turned around with a sigh, but before he could let a single world out, Mira shoved the paint scraper into his stomach with a broken cry and twisted it inside, leaving Padrik choking on blood that quickly rose up in his throat.

  Gasping for air, Padrik stepped back without thinking, meaning to get away, but Mira pulled him forward, forcing the scraper deeper into his stomach. She leaned in close, one hand on the handle as the other reached up to caress the back of Padrik’s head, and she kissed the corner of his lip.

  And then she pulled back, yanking the scraper out. Blood spilled out of Padrik’s stomach and his hands reached to hold it in, unable to breath, unable to think—

  “M… Mira…”

  Blood spit onto Mira’s face as he spoke.

  Lifting his soaked hands to his face, Padrik met Mira’s gaze through the slits in his fingers, before his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the floor.

  Mira stood over him, paint scraper in hand. A line of red dripped down the edge and fell to the floor, meeting the ground with the barest plop as Padrik took his last breath.

  * * *

  Later, Mira stood in front of Padrik’s painted wall, brushing her fingertips to the dried paint. It still needed a second coat.

  Of course, Padrik hadn’t finished the first time. As Mira often found herself reciting during their marriage, if you want something done right, do it yourself.

  The paintbrushes, wrap, and newspapers were still scattered around the room. The ladder was still against the wall, and the furniture was still pushed to the side, out of the way. She could finish the job right now.

  The only sound that filled the room was the slow, drip… drip… drip… of a puddle of blood at the edge of the dining table. An abandoned paint scraper lied beneath it.

  Mira leaned down, paintbrush in hand.

  Padrik lied dead on the floor beside her feet, his stomach cut open and a pool of blood still steadily forming around him. Mira dipped the brush to the darkest tear in his skin, coating the brush in the thick red liquid oozing out of him.

  Standing, she brought the brush up into her line of sight.

  “You were right, Padrik. Red is a bold color.”

  She touched the paintbrush to the wall.

  ###

  About the Author

  Melody Leigh is a freelance writer who loves stories about magic and fantasy or mystery and horror, and most of all, anything that combines them into one. Murders in the Enchanted Forest? Crimes that reek of the paranormal? Sign her up.

  She's also terrible at talking about herself and never knows what to say in bios.

  When not writing, she spends her time playing video games and hanging out with her cats. (See? She's so bad at talking about herself that her first thought is to out herself as a cat lady. Who else would call lazing around the house with their cats "hanging out"?)

  If you enjoy her work, consider leaving a review.

  Other Books by Melody

  Paradox House

  In the wooded outskirts of Laelia Bay lies a mansion the town knows only as cursed. For hundreds of years, stories passed of people who went in, but never came out. One year after the disappearance of a reporter who came to investigate the mansion, twenty-year-old Emilie Shostrom and her two best friends decide to follow in her footsteps and find out what happened to her.

  Their adventure quickly turns sour when they end up trapped inside, left to wander its monster-infested halls in the hopes of piecing together the mystery of Sera Porter's disappearance and the story behind the man who started it all.

  It's not as easy as they hope, especially when they realize the mansion can move through time, changing back and forth between its halls without a moment's notice. Now it's not just a matter of finding out where Sera is inside the mansion, but when.

  Emilie always wanted to go on an adventure. But this adventure might be more than she bargained for.