Red

      My world was red.
      Red was the only color I could see. I lay in a pool of it, staining my skin, and I could taste its metallic bite on my tongue. The smell of the dead and the dying stung the inside of my nostrils with its red, iron scent. Red filled my senses. Red was my existence.
      Red blood. My blood.

      I was the dying, a soldier too wounded to drag himself home. The others were already sleeping their beds of red. I had killed them. I had given them to the red. My hands were stained with it.
      I was not a murderer. I was a soldier. I didn't like the red.
      I knew I was the only red body still breathing the red-poisoned air. Soon I would sleep though, like my enemies. These would be my last moments on God's green earth. I knew that too. My last moments would be lost in the red. Everything was lost in the red.

      My body was broken, torn, destroyed. Red. I would never move from this red place, condemned to die on the indifferent, red ground, lost forever to the red.
      The red would pry me away from life.
      I would either bleed to death or drown in the blood that was gathering on my tongue and at the back of my throat. I could hear it gurgling with every pitiful inhale as I sucked in air through my open mouth, desperately clinging to each precious remaining second of life. The seconds were jewels, sparkling jewels, and were so rare, so precious, so few.
      The red was laughing at me. I could hear it laughing.

      And then I heard her.

      Her sound was different than that of the red, a low purring, and her scent was alluring, not at all like the bitter iron of the red.
      But she couldn't fool me.

      The red had sent her for me. The red was angry with me, tired of my selfish attempts to defy it, and had sent her to claim me, to bring me to the red. I had made the red angry.
      And the red was God.

      The red already had its claim on my ruined body. I belonged to the red.
      But I didn't want the red to take me. It couldn't take me. I wouldn't let it take me. The red was selfish.

      I could not say that I was angry with the red. I had been defiant. I had sinned. And now I had to be punished.
      The red was God.

      I struggled as the white drew closer, the red's angel of death hovering over me. I hated her almost as much as I hated the red.
      I flailed weakly as the white's pale fingers, stronger than my entire red body, gripped my throat and turned my head. The red bubbled in my throat and my attempts to breathe were in vain. The red was laughing at me again.
      This time the red laughed in triumph.
      The red had won, and I was defeated.

      And then I felt the white's grip tighten, and I could sense her face near my own, though I could not see her clearly. The white was beautiful, beautiful and deadly. She was stealing the last of my red, claiming what was the red's by right.
      Black was my existence then.



[Should I capitalize "the red" when referring to red as an entity?]