Hey guys, I’ve been so looking forward to this weekend (practically gunning for it the whole week) when I’m escaping to the Snowy Mountains! I have never actually seen snow and have borrowed skiing equipment from a family friend-several sizes too big but no matter-and I’m ready to fly! Super excited and will write a post about it when I get back.
Below is part two of The Colours Lead Me Here, continuing on from the first part, which you can read here. Hope you enjoy it!
The Colours Lead Me Here-Part 2
So now I am here. I know, I hate it in books when people have this vague type of description of where they are, and I’m just like, ‘Get a grip and look around you, what do you see you idiot’, so I’m going to try my best to describe where I am. I am here. I’m not sure if this if heaven or whatever, I actually think I might be stuck in between. I mean, this isn’t the end, I feel that there’s something more, but I’m not sure what. I want to go there but I can’t. So now I wander, I guess. I’m not in a body, I think, but more of a colour. Is that crazy? Yeah, that sounds pretty crazy. But it’s the best I can do.
I’m a colour and the world is an explosion. I’m like a gnat, blurred and smeared in the middle of it. The set world below, where I used to exist, has faded and become a hazy mist. I can see everything, if I wanted to, and if I had one word to describe it all, it would be overwhelming. Completely overwhelming.
Let me paint a picture for you. Imagine a normal family. The household is a canvas and the family paints on it. They are colours; they each draw, they each sketch, blend, change and merge on it. There are so many colours, overlapping and colouring over each other, angry streaks of crimson and scarlet, soft watercolour-like hues of lilac and creamy pinks, little whirlpools of angry, brooding greys and dull blues. Of course, it’s different for every family. That’s one of the reasons why it’s so thick and complicated. Everyone and everything is different. Of course there are bad places too. There are corners on the canvas map that are so grey, so black and murky; the colours too fused, too disorientated and drowned for me to even dare to venture there with my golden protected shell.
I accept my fate now. I will wander here, alone, unless I meet someone else. The gold will protect me, this barrier that mutes all the colours so that they become bearable. I accept, I stay and I’m not curious. I know where I am.
The world is an explosion and I am in the middle of it.
The first time I was drawn to Nicholas Green wasn’t because he was striking or noticeable. In fact, it was the opposite. His paint palette consisted of a beautiful, beautiful orange. It wasn’t an aggressive orange, like the ones that some volunteers from charities and support groups wore and pushed out, while inside they were swimming in a languid pool of yucky brown. No, it was higher, like the sky before it bloomed or the slow, drunken colour of ale. Kind of like the colour of burning cinnamon, like my name. That felt somehow strangely intimate. Lots of people were born with beautiful colours but they so often chose to stain them. It made me sad.
What surprised me though, was how untainted and stable his was. Curiosity made me stroll down. There weren’t many other things to do. On the way, I entertained myself with guesses. Sleeping? No, the colours of sleepers changed too, but subtly and slowly, like shifts of light. Was he drunk? A drug user? Emotionally stoned? That earned a chuckle.
I delicately picked out him between all the other hues, like one would pick a strand out of their hair, and focused on it, until the colours separated and an image formed, blurry then sharper and sharper and then I could finally see him, a normal browned haired boy, sitting at his desk. For a second, as though he knew I was there, his head tilted up towards the golden window and the sun shone into his brown eyes, flashing them so they resembled the same burning cinnamon as his colour.
I was kind of disappointed. He was just a normal boy. About sixteen, my age. Lean, but not too lean, tall, but not too tall. An average face except for those eyes. I liked his eyes.
A motherly voice sounded from the hall behind him.
‘Nicholas, it’s time to eat!’
It startled me; I hadn’t heard a human voice in so long. ‘Nicholas’ spun around while yelling, ‘Coming!’
He slammed his notebook shut on whatever he had been working on and walked out of the room.
I don’t know why I followed him. Boredom, I guess. Mixed with just a bit of loneliness.
Nicholas lived in a nice house with a nice family. I could tell that much as I entered the dining room. His family were already at the table and he hurriedly sat down. His father led the prayers, a good strong mix of earthly brown and soft reds laden around his broad shoulders.
‘Dear our beloved father in heaven, we thank you today for our meal and blessings and are humbled by your generosity. Please guide us as we try to do your will. We pray in Jesus’ name, Amen.’
The family good naturedly dug in, Nicholas’ mother, a nice woman with a sweet round face and a welcoming circle of orange, taking over the conversation. I hovered over the table, feeling intrusive.
‘I hear that Harry’s kidney surgery will be finished next week. How about we go visit him in hospital?’
‘Grandpa Harry?’ A little girl asked.
‘Yes, Ellie. You remember Grandpa Harry, right? I’m sure we’ve taken you to visit a few times.’
Ellie screwed up her face and then announced, ‘Yes, I remember him. He gave me lots of sticky Minties. They were so sticky they nearly glued my teeth together. That’s how sticky they were!’
Nicholas paused enough from his spaghetti to say, ‘Too bad they didn’t.’
‘I’m kidding,’ he grinned. ‘If they really had glued your teeth together, we wouldn’t be able to see your princess smile, would we now?’
Even though she had her nose up in the air and head turned away, Ellie couldn’t resist smiling at him. Happy strands of pink wrapped themselves like ribbons around her pigtails.
‘There it is! We finally see the light to the end of the apocalypse!’
‘Eat your dinner, Nick,’ his mum chided, although it was with a fond smile. A knowing smile. A smile that meant she loved him and him her as he grinned back. Suddenly, I was struck by loneliness. I was by myself. My mother, wherever she was now couldn’t smile at me like that. For the first time since my death, I thought of my family. Of their good traits, bad traits, hobbies, habits, colours. I wondered how they were. Did they miss me? I missed them. The realisation shocked me, not because it took so long but of its intensity. I really, really missed them. I wanted my mum to smile at me. I wanted my little brothers to annoy me. I wanted my dad to tell me to stop gazing into space when other people talked to me.
A tiny crack appeared in my shell.