Red Ribbon

Big Fishes' Carnival at The Lake - Red Ribbon

A funeral. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

None wondered why a cluster of humans gathered around a coffin much like people gather around campfires, albeit the contrast in atmosphere. Although obstructed by layers of grieving acquaintances, one could clearly imagine a lady on her forties kneeling down, stupidly banging on the coffin walls wailing for explanations, her cry of sorrow striking the hearts of every. The father, a tall man of calmness, would softly hold her shoulder, and although excruciated, would patiently wait for his beloved wife to quench out all her tears, her questions unanswered. As the last line of sorrow break in them one by one, they started to look away, unable to bear, unprepared for a missing existence. For a person so loved, the breathless persona must be of kind nature.

A church. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Sat a girl in front of the hearing wall, with ‘crying’ unable to explain her state. She did say about wanting and end, but never with so much blood on her hands. Now those hands of a murderer were only capable of meaninglessly trying to hide the flowing tears, of sadness, of fear. Imagine a line of good people, standing in line outside the church, so that they could point a judging finger on her one by one. Imagine the word “killer” that everyone had been vomiting to grossly stick to her skin, with her unable to cleanse it for it was truth. She could make mistake. Nobody told her this was an exception, for even her new beloved walked away from her. She never had the chance to explain.

A newspaper. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Trampled on the ground, covered in the snow of yesterday, it hadn’t given up on informing, on spreading the words regarding a murderer walking your street, a succubus so fragile yet prevailed in ending the life of a genius. It said he found the cure to cancer. It said he would have a bright future. It said he brought joy to many. It said his voice liven up the still-beating hearts of the tortured. Yet she stopped him, good. She didn’t want to. She didn’t mean to. She did, with his love for her.

A diary. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Photos of lovely couples were pasted on every page but the last. She appeared to have a good life, a happy relationship, a dream world. In every page would be the word “love”, written not of blasphemy but of sincerity. The last page covered in tears, she had written about her failure, about the second heart beating in her, about how she would only fail him and pull him down from the shining realms in which he belonged. Thinking about him and his future, she thought she had made the ultimate sacrifice – to bury her feelings for his future.

A closed room. The red ribbon still on the wrist.

Darkness desperately tried to cover this room with oblivion, yet it failed to conceal the horrible decision made by the owner of the room – for blood could be smelled, and pictures of her found everywhere you look. A piece of paper explained it all; a crumpled little note for no one to find. It said he couldn’t go on without her. He said she was cruel, the note displayed. He said the world was cruel, the note displayed. His trophies didn’t matter anymore, his flowing wealth much like an army of ants passing by; insignificant, irrelevant. All he wanted was her, and when she was gone for good, there was no reason for blood to run through his veins.

For him to choose the easy path, many must suffer.

I desired to stay, but again the red ribbon pulled my hand, and so I was dragged away, with everything being sucked into the future, and I could only accept, wondering if there was any reason for the ribbon to show me all these. Then I realized what it truly was.

A mirror. The red, flowing blood still on my wrist.

I refused to believe what I saw, yet no longer could I run from the story, for memories of my life were coming back to me. The crazy times I spent with my friends, the joy and grief I shared with my parents, everything felt like yesterday: painfully close, yet inevitable unreachable and unchanging. The trip to Disneyland with her, the nights I spent researching with her patiently waiting for me, occasionally reminding me of how late it had been, although I never complied to her protests, everything was back. I was in a coffin, and now I’m here standing in front of myself. Then the last question remained: may I?

Yes, you may, answered the blood.

Thus I threw away the knife that was about to kiss my wrist, and the pain was no longer. I slammed the door open, and ran with all my strength to find her. I didn’t know who saved me, I didn’t know why I deserved such an impossible chance. But one thing I know for sure: that the blade was never an answer. What a fool I am to even consider.