I always loved the red color. Ever since I was just a little kid, I always wear red. My headband was red. My shoes were red. My whole outfit was red. Whenever I draw something, I put red color in it. I always loved red.
Highschool came, and still --- red is my favorite color. I realized my passion in painting. I started putting red in everything I make. All of my works had a hint of red. Once, my dad saw my artwork. He wasn't happy about it. He even scolded me for that. Said that it looked pathetic --- that I looked pathetic. He told me a few more hurtful things about my artwork but even after that, I still continued painting. I always paint whenever I am stressed or sad. Sometimes, I put a bit too much of red. But still, it looks beautiful.
College came, and I didn't choose the path I wanted to. My dad wants me to be an engineer but I wanted to be an artist, a painter. I tried to explain to him my love for painting and art but he won't listen. In the end, I chose engineering as my course.
College was so hard, I try to understand the lessons I have no interest in, I always hear my dad's words --- pressuring me into getting a title, I always have to do things that are not even related to art. It was so tiring. I got tired of crying every night to my sleep just because I didn't get to choose the path I wanted for myself.
But of course, I never stopped painting. It was my escape to the harsh reality. My love for color red grew bigger. Whenever I see a flat surface, I automatically draw something on it. At first, my artworks won't consume too much space but it grew bigger and I decided to make my one, great masterpiece. I made an abstract one --- I splashed red everywhere. My brush stroked into any direction. There was red everywhere --- and it was beautiful.
And then suddenly, I have no interest in anything and anyone. Everyday, I cared less about the people around me. I cared less about my lessons. I cared less about my dad's words. All I did was my masterpiece.
Until one day, my dad barged in to my room, interrupting my painting. He kept on saying sorry. And he's... crying. Vulnerable. That's the first time I saw my dad cried, looking lost. I don't understand why. But then two men came, rushing in. They scooped me and put me on a bed. I stopped painting, I was out of red color anyway. I looked at both of my hands, down to my wrists---
I guess, I put too much red in my masterpiece.