He loves to paint in his spare time, using every shade of every color. Sometimes, I'd watch him sketch in his notebook, watching how his hand flew over the paper in the most beautiful way. The black of the pencil created shapes and swirls, so dark against the white of the paper.
I know what his favorite color is.
I found out when I walked in on him painting his skin the deepest, darkest red. It dripped down his arm and across his legs, bleeding on to the floor.
He looked so broken, his green eyes wet and stormy.
I never looked at the color red the same again.
He loves to paint, but only on paper. Sometimes, I'd watch him splash a canvas with bursts of color- blues and greens, purples and pinks.
He has a new favorite color.
I found out when I came back home and saw him with black ink on his skin, breathing in smoke in the darkness of his room. Black shadows covered his face, calm and relaxed.
I will never wear black again.
I took away his paint and his paper. I took away his pencil and his notebook.
I took them away because he took his life, hanging from his last favorite color.
As for me, I have a new favorite color, too.
Not that he'll ever know.
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