Because Red is Beautiful

On a journey to her Paris dream, Katie meets a man she falls in love within three hours. But as they separate, Katie realizes it's foolish of her to think she has fallen in love with a complete stranger.
She tries to forget about him and soon she becomes a famous artist in her dream city. Her passion made her known but her curiosity for the stranger in the train always showed in her work.

Two years later, they meet again. But what would Katie do if she finds out that the stranger she met on the train is no longer available?

The story is about struggles in life, dreams coming true and falling apart, romantic tragedies and new discoveries about one's self.


1. A Funeral (Foreword)

A Funeral (Foreword)


Since this is a rewrite, I am hoping that I have put more of my heart in it. -Katherine


P.S Everything in this story (the characters, some of the settings, the events) are completely works of fiction. The hometown and the description of it, the lead and the characters she will be encountering are non-existent. If, however, there are people and places like Those are coincidental. Except for Paris, England, parts of Europe, all of this is fictional.




I didn't expect that today would be the day. 


Our neighbours and who were left of the maids were busying themselves with such preparations but they seemed like ghosts running around the house, completely oblivious to me.


Suddenly, a hand touched my shoulder that I jumped out of my body. I looked up with tear-streaked cheeks and knew that my eyes gave out a dead feel towards anyone it laid on.


"Dear," she whispers. "You need to sleep."


But I can't. If I do sleep and dream and wake up, I would know. I would know that all of this is real. And I can't have that. I shook my head.


"Alright," she sighs. "But at least come with me to the kitchen. You need some tea." Gran held out her hand for me and I took it slowly. And as quickly as she came, she brought me to the kitchen just in time before my body gave out to the weakness it had been consuming the past two days. 



My eyes did not waver from the cross that hanged in the altar. I did not look at the coffin right in front of me as the priest said the words, the prayer, the ceremony for the dead. 


I tried to make myself take interest on the wooden cross and imagined Christ crucified there. I winced at the thought and suddenly I felt the silence suspended in the air. 


I looked around and found everyone staring at me.


Gran leaned in and murmured. "It's your turn to say a few words now, dear."


I took a deep breath and tried to register what she said. Then a few seconds I remembered why we were here and regretted having noticed the eerie silence. My lines, my words for my mother were simple. But they weren't easy to say. I stood up and walked slowly to the podium, my head in the clouds and my tongue caught by a cat. I stared at everyone staring back at me and wondered why they were here.


Why were they here now?


I cleared my throat and kept my eyes on the open doors. 


"Mamma..." I started but I couldn't continue. I tried again. "Mamma was..."


Was. It is a big difference, a huge step, to go from is to was. A person is. Alive. A person was. Dead. How can it mean too much when it is too little, too small of a word?


"What I couldn't stop thinking about," I said now, my voice small. "Is how she smiled...was she always happy? Is she happy now? Mamma had never had the better of things. She was crushed when Papa died. But she lived. She lived for me and even though it is a usual thing to say, from daughters to mothers, she was possibly the best person to fit the word Mom. I love her, as I'm sure you all do or else you wouldn't be here. And as far as I'm concerned, she loved me. She loved everyone she met which was always the problem because it was always easier for people to leave her and harder for her to accept it. But now I is no longer the case." I breathed in and looked at the ceiling. "She was funny. She was lively. She was everything I hope one day I am capable to be. Today, though, she is...dead. And we are in mourning. Tomorrow, she is still dead. But we will be living as if she is still here. I will be. And I know that everyone of you will be saying that she will never be forgotten. I hope that you people will be true to your word."



I stood alone, in front of a tombstone with my mother's name on it. Gran let me stay only if I would be home for an after lunch. I didn't promise her that but she let me off anyway.


Rain started slowly. It was patting my mother's slot in this lonely graveyard. And I smiled like I was crazy and knelt in front of her.


"You are unfair. Not were. Are. And I know you could hear me. Loud and clear, Mamma, I know you could." My throat was tightening, closing in and my grip on reality was fading. "You are so unfair." I let out a strangled sob and cried then and there, not caring if someone sees me.


I hardly doubt it. The rain poured harder and harder and I was soaking wet that I was sure no one was within a hundred yards. 



I am alone. The atmosphere gave foggy breaths from me. The clothes on my skin were ice. The earth was drowning. The air was cold. I am alone. 

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...