Red. Their coats, the blood, the bleeding sunset. So much red.
The patriot soldier tripped over a fallen body – a redcoat – and landed hard on his knee. Musket still in hand, he looked frantically over his shoulder at his approaching foe. He rolled onto his back and drove the bayonet of his weapon through the Brit’s stomach.
The patriot scrambled to his feet, but burning pain split across his back before he could run. He yelled out in shock, and his legs buckled out from under him as the pain intensified. His blood mixed with those lying around him as he crawled on the ground in search of his long gun.
A booted foot stomped on his back, pinning him to the filthy ground. Panting, he glared up the man in red who held a loaded Brown Bess.
“So much red,” the patriot groaned.
“Red wins,” smirked the devil disguised as an Englishman.
Even for his last few breaths, he would not be able escape from the colour that drove both fear and rage through his senses. He closed his eyes, praying for strength and forgiveness. Then, his mother came to his mind’s eye. Her green eyes lit up while her smile chased away the darkness.
“Gabriel,” she called happily, as though they were simply out for a walk in the meadow on a Sunday afternoon.
His tear-filled eyes opened, and he turned away from the man who would soon force a bullet into his brain. The sunset had transformed from red to shades of purple, orange, pink, and yellow. He reached out toward the painted horizon, taking in the colours for his final few moments.