In Colour

A remnant of the 'colour' phase that I went through recently. This time, however, I've tried to use the colours to tell a story, rather then tell a story about the colour...
This is unedited as of now because I can't be bothered...I will get down to rereading it in due time. Till then, here goes...

Green is the colour of the pine needles littering the dull beige carpet. Green is the sound of the Christmas carols playing on the radio in the kitchen. Green is the sheen of the torn scraps of wrapping paper, reflecting the fluorescent lights in the room. Green is the curtain adorning the ornate windows- thick, soft and impenetrable. Green are the eyes that gaze into the distance, searching for answers. Green is the smooth silky dress, covering the dead woman who lies spread eagled on the floor.
Red are the scars across her flawless skin. Red is the blood that trickles down the left side of her face, in a tiny rivulet that travels a well worn path. Red is the hair that hangs awkwardly limp, unused to being disturbed. Red is the lipstick smeared across her face, dragged ruthlessly by an untrained hand. Red is the nail varnish on her toes, that isn't yet dry. Red is the ache in his heart, as he watches her die a slow death.
Golden are the shattered ornaments that tell the tale of a struggle. Golden are the expensive jewels that have fallen off the thread that held them together. Golden are the specks in her eyes that no longer twinkle. Golden is the helpless puppy that whines to no avail. Golden is the single strand of hair that escaped the hair-stylist's trained eye, the one that is now covered in the blood that flows from her skull. Golden is the watch that she clutches in a hand that is now experiencing rigor mortis.
Purple are the bruises, well concealed by make up. Purple is the sky that signals the arrival of dusk. Purple is the shirt that is stained with her blood. Purple is the bottle of perfume, sitting on the table, untouched and innocent. Purple is the tablecloth now draped over her body. Purple are the flowers growing in the back garden...
Silver is the shovel that digs a hole. Silver is the knife that lies casually on the beige carpet, unabashedly flaunting the remnants of her blood. Silver is the moon that brings light to the burial site. Silver is the mist in the cold night air. Silver is the sound of a man scared out of his mind.
Black is the colour of her new home. Black is the garbage bag that contains the crime scene. Black are the embers of the now dead fire. Black is the sound of an empty house, the sound of silence. Black is the pain she can no longer be plagued by. Black is the death that nobody will ever know about. Black is the hope that she no longer has. Black is the betrayal he tried to punish. Black is the jealousy that invades his mind. Black is the guilt he hasn't yet had the pleasure of meeting. Black is the ultimate test of faith. Black is the end. Black is one of many beginnings...