I was reading a poem by Stephen Crane . . . Red Devils is the title.
Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them
And many struggled in the ink
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.
Oh, how I love that image. Devilish red memories and thoughts and desires. Crimson dreams and bloodied fears and pains. The red of anger. The blush of love. The hopeful rose of secret expectations. The damp red of sorrow. The salty dark burgundy of tears held within. The long red scratches of bitter disappointment. The ruby-purpled bruises left by harsh words and harsher actions. The pulsing bloom of guilt.
Running from my heart and out upon the page.
Struggling as I mash them into ink and form them into words.
I work to shape the red muck into something I can share.
Something that will make you see.
My heart.
Red.
There is a boy, older than I am. Tall and dark and handsome. I have known him for forever. He is quiet and secretive, and he is my best friend in my fantasies.
I am a girl of fantasies.
The boy is not mine. He is closer to my brother, and they play endless games together. I dance around the edges of these games, trying to find a way in that excludes my brother. Neither boy takes notice of my attempts to drive a wedge between them.
For years, I dance around the edges of these get-togethers.
Life goes on.
Years pass.
Many years.
He and my brother are best friends.
All these years later, I am still jealous.
Still dancing around the edges.
Life goes on.
The boy who is now a man gets very sick.
He turns to my mother, who takes him in.
There is no reason in the world he would turn to me, but I notice that he does not.
He gets better.
Life goes on.
I get married.
The boy introduces me to his new girlfriend.
I shake her hand and try to see what it is in her that has captured the boy.
I do see in her eyes what has captured him, but the boy is blind and sees only love. I see something else. But the boy does not turn to me for advice, and I offer none.
The boy is very happy.
They marry.
Years pass.
Distance grows.
I start to get letters from the girl who is married to the boy. At first, just a note at Christmas for several years in a row. Then more letters arrive . . . loopy childish handwriting describing her work, her life, and her marriage.
She does not sound happy.
I do not know this woman.
I no longer know the boy to whom she is married.
The man to whom she is married.
I do not answer her letters.
The letters continue to arrive, filled with plans for lunches we might have. Phone calls we might share. Vacations we might take together. She writes in pink and purple and red ink. She signs her letters with little hearts and jokes about how she is crazy.
She does not sound happy.
I do not know this woman.
I do not answer her letters.
She writes to me jokingly of anti-depressants.
She writes to me less jokingly.
I do not know this woman.
I do not answer her letters.
I call my mother and ask about the woman and the man who was the boy I used to know.
My mother and I make small-talk, and I allow myself to be reassured by our gossipy exchange.
I do not think about the woman.
Time passes.
Life goes on.
My life goes on.
Her life goes on.
Until it stops.
A bullet ends things.
The woman ends things.
She was not happy.
She wrote and told me so.
Red devils ran from her heart and out upon the page.
She dropped her pen.
Red muck flowed.
The end.
It is a gift and a curse.
I know.
Hello, you.
Agreed.
Heart breaking.
Amy -
A long time ago.
But still . . .
And always . . . heartbreaking.
Red is an appropriate color for guilt. So many different shades of it…Powerful. Un-ignorable. Attention demanding. Unforgettable.
Brooke -
I had not intended to tell this story at all.
And then I read that poem again . . . in a book of poetry long set aside.
And the words flowed.
Thanks for reading.
My first thought? Damn Kris has been through some shit in her life. My second thought? She really must have been miserable.
Mandie -
As always? I try to tell the stories here on Pretty All True from my perspective. And so there is much I am not going to say.
I’ll leave it at that.
Much love.
((hug))
Sarah -
A long time ago.
But thank you, babe.
Ooh, that is hard. I guess that will make me think twice next time I turn down a facebook request or don’t answer a note from a person I don’t really know. I know it’s not my job to be there for everyone. And yet — wouldn’t we all like to be? And wouldn’t we like to know, even if we were no help at all (as, likely, you wouldn’t have been) that we did all we could?
Anyway, it’s rough. Thanks for putting it out here for us.
Sheila -
There is more to this story than I can tell here.
But did I do all that I could have done?
No.
Would it have mattered if I had?
No way to know.
Guilt is a powerful emotion….even if we have no reason to ‘own’ it — sometimes that’s the hardest kind. *hugs*
I hope you realize what a gift you have with words…draws me in every.single.day. Sometimes to laugh and sometimes not…and I thank you. :-)
Sam -
The thing about guilt is that it lingers and stains.
This post details events many years in the past, but when I read this poem?
It all came back to me.
As for your lovely compliments?
Thank you for that today.
Thank you.
wow.
red has always seemed a shocking color to me. sudden and bursting. out of place in a world of more muted shades. these situations bring the red out. they include so much red, the blood and the guilt. a color that is terrible and impossible to cover up.
Terrie -
Red has never been a favorite color of mine.
I prefer blues and greens and grays.
Red startles me.
Annoys me.
Demands my attention.
I find it extremely ironic that you would post something like this today.
This week my husbands family has been thrown off balance by two unrelated suicides and we are all feeling these same emotions you have described above.
Kelly -
So much love to you and your family in this difficult time.
So much love.
I see from the comments that this happened way in the past, but I know that sometimes things happen that make those far in the past things feel like they happened yesterday. The pain is just as fresh and just as hard. It’s like pulling the scab off of something you thought was healed, but isn’t.
Your writing says so much even when it can’t tell the whole story. Amazingly written as always.
So much love heading your way. Always.
Amy -
I was helping a friend to come up with a name that needed the word “red” in it. I thought of this poem and searched it out. And then stared at the poem as memories flooded over me.
I actually tried not to write this post by offering the title “Red Muck” to my friend. She rejected that name for her project.
So it stayed with me.
Obviously.
Kris,
And as they say, writing is easy. You just open up a vein.
Bill
Bill -
Harder than it looks to open just my own veins.
Much love to you, babe.
Kris
I have written of an experience like this. Someone I did not know. But somehow knew time was short.
One of those weird things I can’t explain.
You summed it up exactly.
But did I do all that I could have done?
No.
Would it have mattered if I had?
No way to know.
That is the part that haunts me just a little. There is a can of worms there, into which I have chosen not to delve too deeply for I cannot change what is.
Ms. WTH -
Yes . . . I cannot change what is.
I do not know what else might have been.
There is no way to know.
Oh shit…
Guilt is one of those bitches that will rear up and kick you when you least expect it.
I am sorry that it bit you today.
Much love to you.
Stasha -
Know what?
I did not write this post today. Not so long ago, but not today.
I saved it for a Saturday, when longtime readers know that I am sometimes less funny.
Love you, babe.
Thanks for being here.
I’ll be honest, I’m not going to play like I understand, because I don’t. I have never been to the end of one of these roads, but I have seen the beginnings. It’s horrid and terrifying and sickening.
To see that there is something not right compounds the issue. I cannot imagine the guilt, if that is what is there. But you do a hell of a job manipulating the words to draw the picture.
I know you don’t want the sympathy, empathy, or any other -thy, but I hope writing this piece helped you. It sometimes does.
Brandon -
I rarely write pieces in hopes that I will be the one who is helped.
Just so you know.
Thank you for your words here today. It means a lot to me that you came by. Thank you for that.
Me
oh my. i can see why that poem would bring this back up and ask for it to be told. i had a writing prompt do that for me recently. disturbing, dark stuff that just wrote. this is so powerful.
Frelle -
I am a woman who likes control in all things. I am always startled when the words of another catch me off guard and bring things up for me that I have shoved down. Not a bad thing to have things brought to the surface.
Powerful, as you say.
Oh kris I just love these posts they make me feel connected to you and you kids and husband this happened to me just a few weeks ago and it made me a miserable crabby sad mother for 4 weeks!I can feel your pain kris. ” hugs”
Theadore -
So much love to you, babe.
So much.
On a lighter note?
I adore your name.
Theadore . . . that’s just fabulous.
Me