Calm Red Night.

>There's a calm in the night.
>It's peaceful.
>Quiet.
>Nothing but the moon, the darkness, and a little one.
>Poofy orange hair with a yellow strip running down the middle.
>There's a lot of it, but it shows great care.
>It's soft to the touch, and pleasing to the eye.
>It's owner, a teenage girl, loves it.
>She brushes it every night.
>When the moon is high and it's light shines just right.
>She is there, brushing it.
>It's her greatest possession, and greatest treasure.
>She loves it.
>She gets comments on it everyday on how much life it has.
>She's used to them all, but loves it.
>Her friends call her Cheese-Poof because of it.
>She giggles when she hears it.
>She's used to the name, but loves it just the same.
>It holds everyones attention.
>Away from her Magenta eyes that carry character.
>Away from her lips that she keeps in a smile.
>Away from her face, which is caked in make-up.
>"You're so pretty, Adagio," the school tells her!
>"How did you get your hair to be like that? Please, teach me!"
>She smiles, as she brushes her hair, at the comments she'll get.
>Because for now, that's all she can hear.
>Until a door opens.
>The door to her room exactly.
>She doesn't look up.
>Not yet anyways.
>Just a few more moments of brushing.
>Just the sound of the voices, and the brush on her hair.
>Is that so much to ask?
>A hand takes her wrist.
>She looks into the face of who owns that hand.
>Her brother.
>The quiet Anon.
>He's usually left to his own devices.
>And does the same with others.
>But when he's found a bottle to open.
>He doesn't like to be alone.
>"Hello, Adagio."
>His voice reeks of booze and pours out the stench over her.
>She doesn't cough.
>She can't cough.
>She won't cough.
>"You're improving," he says.
>She says nothing, but holds his gaze.
>A hand flies across her face, and tries to rip her head off her neck.
>"For once."
>He takes the brush from her, while she puts a hand to her cheek.
>It's warm, and it hurts.
>Tears don't form.
>Not yet, anyways.
>"How are your grades?"
>She doesn't answer.
>Top of the class, bottom of the class.
>Pure average.
>It doesn't matter.
>He wonders around her room, picking up things, looking at them.
>She doesn't answer, she just rubs her cheek.
>"I asked you a question."
>She looks at him.
"They're fine," she says.
>Her voice is strong, proud of herself.
>She knows what will come, no matter how hard she tries.
>She will be proud.
>She will be strong.
>"Oh really?"
"Yes."
>He produces a paper.
>Her latest report card.
>The grades are good.
>Better then fine, even.
>"6 B's and 2 A's?"
>She looks at it.
>He can count.
"Yes."
>He throws the paper behind him.
>His hand goes in again, hitting her other cheek.
>"I expect better."
>Tears don't form, but she can feel her eyes start to water a bit.
>She holds her cheek, and closes her eyes.
>She focuses on the voices, how soft and nice they are.
>How they tell her she's pretty.
>How they tell her she's smart
>"I expect better, Adagio."
>His voice rings throughout the house.
>Neighbours hear him.
>She knows they do.
>She's seen the looks and stares.
>The soft whispers in the streets as she walks to school.
>"She's getting abused!"
>She hears it weekly.
>"Explain these B's," he yells.
>She doesn't respond.
>She looks for her brush.
>It finds her, on the side of her head.
>Her hair barely cushions the blow.
>She chokes back a cry of pain.
>"Well?"
>He's not letting up.
>She doesn't care.
>She just wants to find her brush.
>She wants to hear the voices.
>"You're so pretty, how did you get so pretty?"
>"You're so smart, how did you get so smart?"
>They idolize her.
>They adore her.
>"ANSWER THE QUESTION!"
>She doesn't.
>She just holds her brush.

>Morning comes.
>Her eyes open, as best they can at least.
>For now, they are more purple then her eyes.
>Like the blood on her cheek has more then red then her eyes.
>She gives a weak laugh.
>Maybe that's why they're magenta.
>She sits up.
>Everything hurts.
>Her body aches.
>Her back cries out.
>Her eyes are weak.
>Her fingers can barely bend to take the brush in her hand.
>Her hair is a mess, but she can fix it.
>She can be pretty.
>She looks in her mirror, near her bed.
>She's a wreck.
>Cuts, bruises.
>They are all present and accounted for.
>She stands
>He knee's hurt and her legs spasms for a few moments.
>But she stands.
>She looks in the mirror.
"We will be adored," she sings weakly to herself.
"Tell us that you love us."

-fin