Red day

Marissa Bancroft - Basement

"Red day"

It was a red day. Marissa could never explain why, but some days were just red. Not dark red or pink red or a neon red. Just plain red. Maybe it was how the light shined through the window bars of her aparment. Maybe it was how the chill air sunk gracefully into the basement of Washington Heights. Whatever the incentive, when she woke up some mornings, the world simply unveiled a red hue, simply missing from ordinary life.

To complement the red aura, Marissa donned a red outfit, complemented by her personal touch of black. She wore a red summer dress, even on an October morning in Baltimore. To compensate, she threw on black sweater to shield her thin arms from the Chesapeake chill. Later in the year, she might add black tights or black mittens or a black scarf. But, whatever the accesory, it would merely accentuate the dominant red theme.

As she stepped out into the autumn morning – afternoon, it was, when she crawled out of bed this particular Saturday – her red stilletos stabbed the cold, wet concrete. She did not know why she chose to wear stilletos on a Saturday morning. But then again, she did not know why some days were red.

She paused a moment to breathe the fresh city air, polluted with activity. She contemplated, naturally, her own idleness this morning. She had not even gone out the night before. That was fotunate, she thought. It was a rare Saturday morning to wake up without a guy stretched out next to her.

Never a one-night-stand, of course. Marissa was a romantic, showered in her red glaze. Though this morning, she was devoid of any romantic passion, robbed from her by indiscretion. And infedelity. She possessed her fair share of bad experience, held on to her fair share of bad memories, but she always saw the light shine through her basement gloom.

As Marissa left her father's castle, remant of a once glorious industrial neighborhood, she didn't stop once to glance back at the crumbling tower. Her life was still being built, as far as she was concerned. She would not fall victim to her city's fall from grace. But of course, she was the victim, her whole life torn from her from a bad money, a bad aparment, and bad boyfriends.

None of this mattered to Marissa. Or at least, she refused to dwell on any of her troubles. Self-pity was never a possible occupation for a Bancroft. All she witnessed, all she contemplated, lay straight ahead of her, on frigid Saturday afternoon with a red mist descending into the post-industrial haze of Baltimore, Maryland.