[ WP ] Ever since The Red , I 've been a mess .

When I think about her, the first thing that comes to mind is the color white. 
 
 When I met her, everything was white. Her pointlessly frilly dress, her perfect teeth, her pale skin; it was everywhere. 
 
 Now, all that comes to mind is red. 
 
 We met in high school. We were n't really friends; but we knew each other existed, at least. We barely ever spoke, and I think I worked on a project with her at one point. We really met in our first year of college. We were both majoring in practical law. She wanted to be a lawyer to fight for people who did n't know they had rights. I wanted to make my dad proud. We spent a lot of time studying - well, that's what we told ourselves. In reality, we both almost failed. We could n't keep our hands off each other. Over time, though, I noticed something about the white in her life - it started to disappear. It was n't a big change, but I definitely noticed it. It did n't stop me from proposing though - white or not, she was the love of my life. I bent down on one knee during a picnic at the park. There was a beautiful bridge that looked over a highway - we used to pretend the car headlights were fireflies. On our wedding day, I almost saw the white take back over - but on her skin, I saw some red. Little dots, working their way up her arms, making their way to her shoulders, trying to take away what little white she had. They were corrupting her. It started to work its way into her eyes. I caught her, one night. Putting the red into her arms. It was n't pretty, but I ignored it. I knew what it was. She knew I knew. 
 
 I told her to stop. 
 
 She told me she could n't. 
 
 The red started to creep into her life more. I found used needles all over the place. Cotton balls and burnt spoons. I ignored them. I prayed that she'd get better, but I could n't talk to her. I could n't tell her. I'm only so much of a fool for her. One morning, I woke up and the red was flying from her arms. She could n't take the pressure. She'd cut herself, and whatever illusion of the white I'd loved when we married was gone. 
 
 Three weeks later, she threw herself off that bridge. The doctor told me she was high when she did. I hope the red made her think that she was finally going to meet the fireflies. Now, all she is is red. 
 
 I've found her old red. 
 
 It's starting to creep in the edges of my eyes too now. 
 
 I miss her. 
 
 The fireflies are calling. 
 
 __________________________ 
 
 I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do this, but I found this prompt on another site and I thought I'd cross post it here along with my take on it.
