John's head was pounding.
He tried blinking away the fuzzy shapes he found himself seeing when a much more odd shape walked toward him.
No. Two shapes. It was two shapes that walked towards him.
The last thing he remembered was-
Why couldn't he remember anything?
No.
He remembered everything up untill yesterday?
Why was his head pounding?
Wait.
That wasn't right.
Footsteps.
Those were footsteps.
Eventually his eyesight evened out and he found himself staring up at a police officer.
No, there was two.
The officer was talking, but he couldn't hear a word.
His ears had started ringing, making the words being uttered around him white noise to the ringing.
He blearily stared up at the two people. He couldn't consentrate his sight on either of them, so he tried to look to what was a bottle.
It seemed to shine in a fuzzy dark red.
The familliar cool feeling of the smooth glass bottle he was holding was one of the only things he could concentrate on.
What was in it?
Wine?
Had he been drinking?
He felt himself frown.
That didn't seem right.
But, if not, why was he on his floor, completely disoriented and holding what was probably a bottle of alcohol?
Wait. Dark red?
It made him think of ex-wife. How he had first met her. They had somehow ended up on the topic of colors, and she'd told him what colors would represent which emotions or meanings.
"All right, fine. What does dark orange mean?", he'd asked her.
"Well," she mused, "It could mean distrust. Deciet."
"What about red?"
"Dark red?"
She turned to him, staring out at the sunset near the bay they were driving past. He shrugged.
"It means many, many things. It could mean vigor, rage, malice, anger, willpower, longing and rage. It depends on the intention you use the color for. I'm not exactly sure, but Revenge, too."
It made him think of how her blood had pooled around her after he struck her down, and his satisfaction at finally winning. Because finally, the money his father worked for, slaved away for to help the woman he stabbed climb up the ladder, was his.
It always was.
John found her awnsers ironic. He felt himself fading off, away from the now and back into sleep.
And all he could think was, "Is this the revenge she spoke of as she died?"