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Pink
Rating PG13
Disclaimer….I wish
they were mine but last time I looked they belonged to Joss.
Written for
the Blood Roses Forum's
Rosebud Challenge.
*
He never was one for
colour. At least that is what his friends believed. There had been many a
joke made at his expense about his seeming addiction to black. Truth be
told he didn’t need to dress to experience the joy of colour. He is
Vampire. His eyes although suited to the dark see everything in vivid
splendour.
He thinks fondly of
pink. As in the blush of her cheekbones and the painted nails she wore.
Little girl tones except, he pauses…that hot pink number she wore to the
Bronze one night. No not a little girl at all, that was definitely a
woman’s hue. His mind goes where every man or vampire goes…to the rose of
her budding breasts and the flush of her skin while in the throws of her
orgasm. He licks his lips missing her with a fierce rush of longing and
forces his mind elsewhere.
He rifles his memory
and finds just the thing to turn his thoughts away from forbidden fruit.
That pink helmet that Wesley made him wear. He never did get him back for
that indignity he thinks sadly, there were many other scores to settle that
seemed more pressing. If he could have those times back before it all went
to Hell he would. But he has been to Hell and there isn’t any pink there,
red is more Hell’s colour. Some little girl who wasn’t a girl told him once
that red was his colour; it fits him after all for he is a creature of
Hell. The pink though has memories that can be cherished, red does not.
That dumb blonde who
called herself his secretary wore pink…a lot! It seemed as if the vamp had
the patent on the colour. Her clothes and shoes, bag and nails screamed
Barbie to him and he will never admit to knowing who or what Barbie is. He
has a reputation to *live* up to. He shifts and crosses his legs at his
ankles, the chink of ice rings softly as he finishes his drink.
He recalls the soft
hue of his baby’s skin, fresh and new and innocent. The silk of talcum
white against the soft delicate shell pink of his son’s chest is a memory
he treasures dearly. It isn’t enough although he knows that it is all he
has. His heart squeezes and he gasps back the agony of missed childhood.
The silence of loneliness rings loud.
He hears a sound at
his door and rises gracefully to pad barefoot across the room. No one
knows, (he knows no one,) that he stays here, he cannot say he lives.
Carefully he opens the door and finds the hall empty. A faint perfume
catches his attention and he looks down at an envelope, pink. He reaches
for it and his fingers tremble. He recognizes the loopy writing. It is
hers.
The End
August 2005.
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