Red never looked so good on white before. It brought Guzma back to the first time he remembered seeing his own blood. He had been five or so and in the bath. He knocked the soap out of the tub, and stood up to get it. When he did he slipped and fell, knocking his head on the porcelain side. Guzma'd started to cry, and his father slapped him hard across the face. He didn't remember the exact words, but he was fairly sure he knew what his father had said. It was always the same. “Don't be a fucking pussy. What's wrong with you? I didn't raise a son like this.”

 Mix and match those, throw in a liberal use of the word “bitch,” and “You're no son of mine,” and you just about had it.

His nose hadn't been broken then, but blood splattered onto the dingy tile and into the tub. He remembered looking down and watching it drip into the water, each droplet swirling until the water was nothing but a pale red. His father swore, and left the room. “You better clean that up. Fucking kid.”

It was the first, but it wasn't the last. Guzma spent a lot of time in that bathroom, pushing his thrice-broken nose back into place with the palm of his hand, or rinsing the blood from his mouth. He gave himself stitches once, and he liked the way they looked, black on red on the white of his pale skin. When his father saw them he roared with anger, and split the crooked wound open again. He still had the scar on his forehead, up somewhere near his hairline.

And here he was again, red on white on white on white on white. Red on that perfect white floor, smeared on those expensive tables, across monitors and machines worth more than his own life ten times over. It was on her dress too, the president, and spewing from her broken mouth. She blinked at him through swollen eyes, and her toothless mouth gaped soundlessly. She couldn't laugh at him anymore, he'd made sure of that. It was always the worst when she laughed at him.

This time she'd called him into Aether loud and angry, swinging from sweet and cajoling to dismissive, disgusted. It was more than he could take. He stepped forward, got in her face. Yelled. That could have been the end of it, would have been the end of it if she hadn't fucking laughed. She turned her head up to look at him, and told him that he didn't dare. He was too weak. He was a coward. Guzma saw his father's eyes then. He saw that same look, heard what she had been saying all along. *You're useless. You don't matter. You can't do anything right.*

Her pretty pink lips pulled upwards and she laughed again, so light and delicate. A beautiful, lilting sound. He hit her then. Her teeth cut his knuckles, and the first blood hit the ground in fat droplets. Red on white. White on red. That's what she was, white on red. When the blood poured from her nose, her mouth fell open in this perfect little caricature of surprise. This time his fist glanced off of one of her high, delicate cheekbones, and his ring cut open a ragged swath of skin. Lusamine's hand went up to her face, and that look on her face never changed. It was like she couldn't quite imagine something like this could happen to her. Like she couldn't imagine Guzma was capable of this.

She should have known better. A kicked dog is vicious. He aimed his foot at her flat stomach, and let loose. She retched and curled into a ball. Idiot. The end of his scuffed sneaker found its way to one of her exposed kidneys. Red foamy vomit spewed from between her lips. A desperate smile pulled at her stained mouth. “Guzma... When...” She coughed, and red ran from her nose down her pale face. “When did you become...so beautiful?”

That was enough. He shuddered, the urge to vomit rising in his throat. He raised a foot and aimed it home at those perfect white teeth. A tooth skittered across the floor, and he laughed helplessly at the gold filling perched on top of it. That single tooth was worth more than his life. Lusamine tried to speak, and he looked down at her twisted body. It sounded like she was chewing glass.

He'd had enough of this place, this life. As he left, red footprints followed behind him. Red on white, red on white, throughout the whole Aether foundation. His split fist dripped alongside him, and the handprints he left were nothing but red, red, red.