Red. Red. Red.

October 5.

That's the day she'll always remember.

Her husband would never let her forget, with each red bottle he consumed day by day.

Her body would never let her forget, with the dull ache she had when she sat down.

Her mind would never let her forget, with the mental pictures that popped up every time she looked at a mother holding her baby.

The red. All the red.

She remembers how she saw the red for the first time. It was three in the morning, and she was going to the bathroom.

It was normal for her to go in the middle of the night. After all, her bladder was no longer controlled by her, but by someone else.

She didn't notice the red until she placed a hand on her stomach, expecting to feel movement, and didn't.

That's when she saw the red.

She screamed, shrill and loud, and didn't stop, even when her husband carried her out of the house. She didn't stop, even when she was temporarily blinded by the fluorescent hospital lights.

And she definitely didn't stop when she was wheeled into an unfamiliar room.

She remembers shopping with her sister, just days before. Her sister held up a bright and vibrant red swimsuit.

She said no; it was too bright, too vibrant, too much.

She wished she had gotten the red swimsuit, that maybe if she had gotten it, it would have replaced the amount of red she saw that day.

The red still hadn't stopped.

She remembers thinking of the Red Sea, and how Moses stopped it for the Israelites.

She remembers wishing God would do the same for her.

The red stopped, but only for a little while. The doctor, her coat stained with red, gave out a small sigh.

It filled her with hope.

Her husband, his eyes bloodshot and red, looked at her with a small smile. His hands were red, too.

Their red-stained hands held each other.

Back in fifth grade, she remembers putting a ketchup packet under her friend's chair. The red splatted all over the floor, and some even got on people's shoes.

That's how she remembers October 5.

Two of the nurses got the worst of it. The other three probably just threw their clothes out afterward.

The doctor's red lips parted, frozen for a moment, before shouting orders to the nurses.

She remembers feeling tired.

Weak…

Weary…

So she closed her eyes.

She couldn't remember how much time had passed.

She wished that wasn't the only thing she couldn't remember.

She reached out for her husband's hand, which was no longer red-stained. They looked clean and polished compared to hers.

He retracted his hand away from her, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

She remembers feeling pain.

He left.

She remembers not seeing him again that day.

Her pain doubled.

The doctor yelled out words that didn't make sense to her.

"Push… push… push!"

She didn't want to, but the pain was too much to bear, so she pushed.

This time, she remembered the time length; 17 hours and 42 minutes.

The nurse held a bundle of red and put it in a glass box. She remembers watching the red, waiting for something to happen.

The bundle of red never moved.

When the red had finally stopped, the nurse wheeled the bundle of red out of the room.

She felt guilty about that moment being the first time she cried. For a reason she couldn't comprehend, she missed the bundle of red.

The doctor and the nurses left her alone with the red. With all but the one red she wanted to be left alone with.

She continued sobbing.

The red was taunting. It was everywhere.

On her bed.

On her clothes.

On her.

She remembered the time she spilled cranberry on her mom's favourite white carpet. She scrubbed at it with bleach, yet, no matter how much she tried, more of it still stayed red.

When the nurse finally came back with the bundle of red, it was no longer red.

It was brown.

She remembers missing the red. But she loved the brown, too.

It was the same brown as her husband.

She remembers crying, not only for the red she missed, but for the brown.

For the brown that was with her, comforting her, and the brown that was not.

The doctor came in 23 minutes later, a fresh white coat on her shoulders, and a look of pity on her face.

She couldn't hear the words she was saying. Perhaps her ears were filled with red, as well.

Nurses came to clean up the red. She remembers struggling to get out of bed and into a wheelchair.

She also remembers noticing the needles they poked and prodded into her for the first time. They had a dull sting to them, one that got worse if she moved her arms or hands a certain way.

The nurse wheeled her all around the hospital, stopping at the cafeteria for a quick snack.

The nurse picked up an orange. She picked up an apple.

Her room smelt like fresh laundry when they got back. There was no red in sight, only the bundle of brown beside her bed.

Her sister came to visit the next day. They both cried for the brown.

Afterward, they had tea and ate all her favourite fruits and snacks. She finished the watermelon first.

When her sister left, she felt lighter than she had in the past few days.

It was exactly 2:23pm when the nurses took pictures of the brown.

She remembers feeling both touched and startled at the fluffy, hand-knit clothes that were placed on the bundle of brown. The nurses took pictures and later gave her the flash drive containing them.

It was a red flash drive.

Hours later, her husband came to pick her up at 5 o'clock.

He never looked her in the eyes the entire ride home, and went straight into the house, leaving her to get out of the car by herself.

She remembers the way her legs shook while she tried to get up.

She remembers freezing at the sight of her red roses. They were starting to wither from the lack of care they received.

She made a mental note to start working on them immediately.

She remembers staring at her bright, brick house. It no longer felt like home.

And it wouldn't, not while the red was still everywhere.

Not everyone saw it, but she sure did.

The red would never let her forget.