Color
By C. Montgomery
- 481 reads
The sucking slurp of semi liquid earth slows my steps and gurgles between my bare toes. I feel like I’m walking inside a mouth. My feet sink in and out of a brown, uneven tongue coated with thick saliva, while the moist, sticky air clings to my skin and twists my hair. I look to the roof. It’s heavy and gray, but the rain has stopped for now.
Colorless. Weighted and colorless. Sloshing brown mud. Barren gray trees that can’t even rustle when the wind blows. Fluffy ashes hide the color of the sky, and I begin to doubt the existence of something blue behind them. It’s as if the world has burned itself to nothing. Nature consumed. Color drained. Nothing but bones and saliva under a smoldering canopy.
I stop my senseless trek. My feet sink up to my ankles, joining me to the washed decay. The only thing that feels dry is my face. I notice for the first time that I have been clenching my dress in my fists, holding the lacy hem high above the sludge. Instinct. My train has been dragging behind me, blending with the earth. My breath and fingers release in tandem, and the last of the white hem mixes with brown. We match now—me and this new world. Colorless. Blended. Abandoned.
Without the sloshing of my feet, the world is silent. The highway doesn’t rumble in my ears anymore. I’ve left civilization’s bustle behind me. I borrow a breath from the silence, and wonder if it was always coming to this. Inevitable. Would making different choices ever have changed this reality, or has it always been here, waiting like a fixed twist in the road? My chest rises and falls, the only movement caught by the fringe of my vision.
It’s an old tradition. Tale as old as time. But right now, I don’t feel beautiful. A beast is being born inside me. I can’t quite name it yet. Anger? Fear? Betrayal? Failure? Emotions can blend so completely into one another that you can’t pull them back out of the twisted ball inside your stomach and deal with one at a time.
I’m not lonely. Solitude feels weightless sometimes. Even the oppressive clouds seem to feel lighter. They can’t see me. They’re just there, suspended in time and reality. They let me be. My eyes trace the indefinite ruts in the muddy path. It stretches out into the distance, and I can’t see too far in the fog. On either side of me brown meets drooping dead grass and faded gray bark. Bland. The neutrality encapsulates me and I feel safe. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Thick, wet air fills my lungs, it’s silence sinking into my soul. I’m okay. I don’t have to feel the pain.
But my eyelids can’t be trusted. They hold memories, and today’s memories are fresh and sharp. They steal the humid air from my lungs, and my chest drops into a black hole. The emptiness hurts. I can see the procession and hear the music. Everything was planned perfectly. My mind’s eye caresses the slippery silk and scrapes the textured tulle. I hear the ripple of laughter and tinkling of glasses. Flashes of smiling faces and flowers. The pictures freeze on his face, and I can’t take it any longer. My eyes open to escape him.
My face is no longer dry. My glare accuses the sky. The dull colors awaiting winter haven’t dulled the stabs of pain long enough. It’s too soon, I suppose, to seek solace. To crave closure. I should weep uncontrollably. I should accuse and rage. Instead, I just wish it were over. I wish I didn’t feel.
I remember the colors. We’ve been planning them for long enough. I chose such happy colors. Had I been trying to convince others I was happy—that he was happy? Had I been trying to convince myself that I was happy? At the end of the day, for the day is nearing its end, I’m not sure who is to blame. Maybe that’s why I don’t know how to feel. Right now, I like these colors better. Brown. Gray. Opaque. This world is right for me. I want to stay. If I soak it in again maybe the pain will keep melting away. Pain. Regret. Fear.
If I go back, I will have to deal with the sympathy, both real and fake. I will have to squint my eyes into the array of bright colors I no longer understand. Here, my eyes feel heavy and wet, but it doesn’t matter because everything around me is heavy and wet. I don’t stand out. I don’t have to know how I feel or even feel at all if I don’t want to. I won’t be judged for that here. The trees don’t care if I feel anger or nothing at all. I feel like I could float in a trance like the clouds: ashen and drifting.
A whisper of reality reminds me that the clouds will fall and blue will brighten the world again. An acceptance of the old world and the new? The grayish white that films the sky only borrowing from the blue. I turn my face back to the ground. The mud may dry, but it will fade. Dull dust will replace the depth of the brown.
From a tree branch to my right I hear a high chirp, and I look up to see a flutter of red.
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Comments
A big welcome to ABCTales C -
A big welcome to ABCTales C - I really enjoyed your debut piece. A beautifully crafted landscape which made me feel as if I were there with the narrator. If you're looking for suggestions I'd say perhaps it's a little long, and maybe you don't need that penultimate paragraph - taking it out would give the final line (which is great) more impact. I love the photo too btw. Is it your own? If not, does it have a creative commons licence and/or does it need a credit?
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No - not boring at all! Good
No - not boring at all! Good luck with the competition. Let us know how it goes!
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