Red(Shane Irwin) I sit in my room, trying to peacefully escape to my place of serenity and happiness. With my wife next to me, and my two children in the next room, I feel as though I have achieved happiness. Yet, when I close my eyes to escape to this place of peace, all I can see is red.

Red for anger and hate. But I always thought red was meant for love?

My eyes snap open and I feel the beads of sweating cascading down my forehead, and feel my shirt now soaked with moisture.

My father used to always bring red roses for my mother when they had a date - I used to think that was what love was when I was little. The red of the heart shaped boxes of chocolate, the beautiful and lush red lipstick my mother wore for their dates.

I slowly roll out of bed to make sure I do not wake up my wife. It is an art I have perfected for many years since my parents got divorced when I was 15 - and now at 28, I still cannot overcome these constant nightmares.

But the red began to represent to color of the faces I would see every day. I see the red face of my father screaming and yelling with rage. I see the red face of my mother sobbing and screaming in defense of the incessant attacks.

I make sure the shower is as cold as ice as I throw off my shirt and listen to it smack to the ground, weighted with sweat. I lean against the wall of the shower and let the rush of the water hit my head and body. I stand there and hope that the water will wash away this tormenting dream. But, I still know that tomorrow night the same will happen.

I flashback to the night when my mother left my father for good. All I saw was the red brake lights from the taxi pulling away from the driveway. I watched the red lights bounce up and down the whole length of the street until it turned away.

I cautiously make my way down the stairs and take my rightful place in front of the television. I commence my usual routine of going through the channels. Regardless, I know I will end up watching the tape that has been sitting in the VCR for the last 15 years.

The judge wore the same red lipstick my mother used to wear for her dates, but now I knew it did not mean love. The red was for hate and anger and fighting. Her lips pursed as she slammed the gavel, and I knew that red no longer meant love.

I watch my mother walk down the aisle at the wedding. Her long, curly brown hair peeking from underneath the veil. I watch the back of her beautiful white gown flow against the floor as she walks toward my father. I see my father sweating with nerves and anticipation, but also with the biggest smile I had ever seen.

I hated the red lights of the taxi that brought me to and from the two houses I now had. The days marked in red were the ones I had to endure the overwhelming ride to the new houses. I hate the color red for that.

I see the white rose petals that everyone threw in the air as my parents ran out of the church for their waiting limo. Everyone yelling and cheering with excitement and glee - all so happy for my parents. My parents jump into the limo and I catch a glimpse of them smiling at each other with infatuation before the door closes. The limo was white as well.

My father got me a white hat for my birthday the year of the divorce. My mother got me a white pair of sneakers. I wore them all the time - regardless of who I was with. They both always told me how much they loved me and would always be there for me.

The video ends and I make my way to the garage. I flip the light switch on and move towards the towering stack of boxes on the back. I search for the only box I have - the only white box in the entire pile. I slowly pull it out, as I have done so many times.

I was happy to live with my parents separately. I no longer saw red. All I saw was the white gaping front door of the new house my father had. I saw the white rose garden my mother planted in front of her house. I was happy to see the white - I never wanted to see red again.

I try and fit the white hat that my father once gave me over my now balding head - of course it does not fit. I desperately try and get the white sneakers to unknot from each other but the laces have become stiff as a board. Yet, I am content to just look at them and remember the color white.

I knew my parents loved me when I no longer had to see the red of their faces screaming at each other. Instead, I would always see the white of their teeth as they smiled at me when I arrived each time. Regardless of my age they still always embraced me with a smile and told me how much they loved me.

I make my way upstairs to the room where my daughters sleep. I push open the door and see the white rose patch I painted on the walls. I smile. I move to each of them and give them a quick peck on the cheek. They know I will love them forever.

I love the color white. White should represent love, not red. White is soft and welcoming. It is like the white fresh powdery snow you jump into in the winter. It accepts you.

I crawl back into bed with my wife and give her a quick shake. I know she is not happy to wake up, but she rolls over reluctantly. I return her drowsy glare with a wide smile. I whisper, “I love you always and forever,” and quickly peck her on the forehead. She smiles.

I now begin to return to the slumber I was once in and feel comforted by the white, fluffy pillow beneath my head and the picture of my family standing in front of our white house.

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