A House of Red

A drop of crimson
Trickles down the wall.
The paint is peeling
In a house built of blood.
Doorways lead to ruby rooms,
Each one filled with scarlet skulls.

The heat is stifling
As you enter this house.
A trembling thought
Says to stay away.
But you press on through smoke,
Through sulphurous fumes,
And find yourself standing
By a great iron oven.

This strikes you as odd,
But you don't know why.

You open the oven
(It is warm to the touch),
And inside you find a ring.
You pick it up;
You turn it over
In your clumsy hands.

It is gold,
Or something like it,
Forged in flame for fingers.
You choose to wear it.
You will wish you hadn't.

A baby screams in another room,
And you swiftly rush to help it.
When you throw this door wide,
You see an empty chamber
(Save for skulls).
No baby was screaming.
Not yet. Not yet.
An echo of something
That is yet to come.

You know if you never see this baby,
The blood will never flow.

You return to the kitchen,
And find a knife.
You raise it toward the light,
And watch the metal gleam.
You have no idea
What else to use it for.

A drop of crimson
Trickles down the wall.
You look around in confusion.
Someone is sitting
Alone at a table.

A child looks back at you
From over her shoulder.

Your lips part to speak,
But you don't know what to say.
The child won't stop staring.
You stumble away
In search of an exit,
But you trip upon a toy.
A toy soldier--a man.

The silent child
Rises from her seat,
And picks her toy up gently.
As you struggle to your feet,
The floor begins to shake.

The child stares, and whispers a word.
You can't hear her. That one little word.
The most important word
You could ever hear.

You run away, still holding your knife,
As the house collapses behind you.
A short distance off,
You turn around,
And see that mound of red.

A toy soldier.
A little girl.
A knife. A ring.
And a house of red.