Crimson Flags & Razor Blades

Under the Scarlet Banner

The stench of cheap perfume and stale sweat adhered to Millie like a second skin. Eighteen years in the Red District, and its sickly-sweet odour was the only scent she recognized. There was no recollection of warmth or loving hands; the only thing that remained was a tattered box lined with faded, crimson flags. It was a makeshift cradle that had been abandoned at the front door of Madam G's brothel.

Madam G had stitched those scraps into a jacket for her—a garish, shapeless thing Millie wore dutifully. Over the course of her life, she had accumulated an increasing number of layers and flags, which grew to the point where it flowed behind her like a bloody river. "Little Red Flags Riding Hood," the men sneered at her. A whisper that conjured images of seductive looks and hefty wallets, her name had transformed into Vermillion.

But Madam G was her grandmother, for better or worse. Her pimp, her mentor. The one who bathed her tiny, abandoned form and raised her to be the crown jewel of the Red District. Tonight, old age and creeping illness held Madam G prisoner in her lake house, away from the brothel. In her place, Mommy V, withered yet still spry, slipped a fine honey cake and a bottle of their best wine into Millie's hands.

"Take a shortcut through the market on your way, dearie. A bit of fruit, like a good granddaughter," the woman said, wagging a crimson-tipped finger. "But no dawdle-diddling! Those streets breed trouble even in daylight."

Millie's practised smile tugged at her lips as she promised to hurry. They never told her to be cautious of Willy, the Wolf of the Red District. A dark whisper among the working girls. The slick-haired villain who leered but never touched the brothel's finest. He was a rival pimp, one with twisted appetites and the backing of that shadowy group, The Grim Society. Madam G had always swatted away his offers for Millie with the disdain of a queen refusing spoiled meat.

The streetlights cast an eerie sheen on damp cobblestone as Millie passed drunkards and shadowed doorways. A tug of unease prickled her nape. Willy's eyes were always on her, hungry and cruel. He'd find a way...he always did. The market square flickered into view—a last bastion of life before the isolated path that twisted towards Madam G's house. Then, he emerged from the murk: Willy, clad in tailored black, a chilling smile stretched across his face.

"Such a dutiful little thing," he purred, voice smooth as rotting silk. "And what a fetching cloak as always. A bit gaudy, but you've always had a flair for the dramatic."

His words sent shivers down her spine, but Millie held her ground. "My grandmother waits," she replied, the practised flirtation absent from her tone.

"Ah…but a thoughtful granddaughter knows a bit of fruit brightens a sickbed." Willy strode closer, his musk and smoke-laced breath washing over her.

Despite the growing dread coiling her gut, the delay felt justified. Before she could protest, he'd vanished into the teeming marketplace. Her steps to Madam G's house felt far heavier now.

The front door stood ajar, something Madam G would never allow. The lights were on, illuminating the silent interior in an unnatural orange glow. Fear, a writhing beast in her belly, choked her. Her hand instinctively searched for her boots – where her small, portable, razor-sharp knife was concealed in.

The first prickle of wrongness starts with the ajar door. Madam G, with her meticulous rules and iron will, would never make such a careless mistake. Every step towards the silent house echoes like a death knell in Millie's ears. The fire casts long, dancing shadows, mocking the warmth usually emanating from Madam G's presence.

Her eyes fixed on the bed, on the strangely shaped bundle beneath a familiar shawl. Every instinct screams at her to run, to turn away, but she can't. She simply can’t. 

With trembling hands, she pulled back the shawl, and froze.

It isn't Madam G. Beneath the lump of pillows, Willy's voice echoes. A chilling parody rang in her ears. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood stung her nose, followed by the burning slice of pain across her heel—a calculated strike which instilled a sense of terror within her.

"Time to be the star, Little Red. Your stage...well, let's just say your audience will pay a pretty penny." Each word, coated in vile amusement, pierced deeper than a knife ever could. He leans closer, pulling the distance to a centimetre away. His breath which reeked of cigar smoke engulfed her. His arrogance extended throughout the whole room, growing and expanding faster than weeds.

Millie’s eyes flicked to her crimson jacket—a defiant banner dangling beside the bed. Years of being a displayed object suddenly fueled her with desperate fury. With a primal shriek, she launched herself forward, her jacket unfurling furiously like bloody wings. It striked Willy's face, momentarily throwing off his aim.

The pocket knife nestled in her boot was summoned to her hand. Its familiar weight was a fragment of hope she greedily lingered to. Millie rolled and twisted, her blade flashing in uncontrollable arcs, slicing whatever came in its way. Her attack successfully gashed Willy, who staggered and cursed, marking an ‘X’ on him as his blood soaked through his attire. His bloodshot eyes of burning hatred pierced through Millie’s. With full agility, she kicked, every last ounce of strength channeling into the final blow that sent him crashing down the stairs.

The bathwater turned a sickly pink as she scrubs off the gore, her bandaged heel throbbing. Cake crumbled dryly in her mouth, choking her as she swallowed. Wine burned like acid as she gulped it down her throat. There's no time for grief. No time to waste. A hollow, howling emptiness filled her heart, aching it. Tomorrow, the wolves in blue uniforms will be howling, too, as they hunt the killer.

From now on, the life of Little Red Flags Riding Hoe is different. A restless life in which she is hunted and always on the run. But deep down, something has changed. Her scars will forever remain, either from the Red District or from the red flags. It will constantly remind her of her past, like an alarm which could never be turned off, ringing forever and endlessly.

She had lost everything. Everything but herself.