I tasted red when Ifeanyi struck my jaw.
I saw red when I chundered in the bathroom sink afterwards. I stared at it. Blood and sputum. Mostly blood.
I felt red when he hit me a month after. It was warm and trickled down my thighs like a mild tickle. I lost her; I was going to name her Olileanya.
Today I see red everywhere. And it’s all my fault. My hands and dress are splattered with it.
Ifeanyi lay motionless on the floor, the kitchen knife still lodged in his chest. I smiled. Red had never looked so comforting.