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"Colour"
Colour…
She just wanted to see colour again.
She wasn’t sure when she stopped seeing it; she just knew she couldn’t see it anymore.
Not that it would do any good thinking about it.
She unconsciously began to wring her pale wrists in her sudden anxiety as she slumped against her old tatted sofa. It had belonged to her grandmother.
Not that that really mattered right now. Just something she remembered from time to time.
The young woman lay down on her side; she had a spectacular view of her kitchen from this angle.
It was hideous, none of the hues in the kitchen matched. Or at least, not that she remembered. She remembered thinking it looked rather like some nightmare out of the 1960s.
She snorted in faint amusement. Not like she was even around in the 60s. But she remembered old photo albums her mother possessed and the colour coordinated disaster that her grandparents’ house had been back then.
A pink, white and turquoise bathroom? Who picked that out?
Of course, she also remembered her grandmother’s eyesight had been horrible, so that could explain a lot of the décor.
She snorted again, and rolled onto her back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she watched the fan rotated wildly. Sometimes she entertained thoughts of the damn thing crashing down on her.
Not that she really wanted that, just her mind wandered to strange places sometimes.
Like when she was driving to work, or the market, or anywhere, and began to think about what might happen if she blew the red light and drove straight into oncoming traffic.
She didn’t really want to die; she just thought of morbid things. Mostly borne out of curiosity than any real mental ailment.
Not that her family believed her, of course.
“Hon, I’m going to the store, do you want anything?” her husband asks as he comes down the stairs.
She doesn’t even glance at him. What’s the point? She already knows what he looks like.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want to get fatter,” she calls out absently. She hears him grumble under his breath.
She just wanted to see colour again.
She wasn’t sure when she stopped seeing it; she just knew she couldn’t see it anymore.
Not that it would do any good thinking about it.
She unconsciously began to wring her pale wrists in her sudden anxiety as she slumped against her old tatted sofa. It had belonged to her grandmother.
Not that that really mattered right now. Just something she remembered from time to time.
The young woman lay down on her side; she had a spectacular view of her kitchen from this angle.
It was hideous, none of the hues in the kitchen matched. Or at least, not that she remembered. She remembered thinking it looked rather like some nightmare out of the 1960s.
She snorted in faint amusement. Not like she was even around in the 60s. But she remembered old photo albums her mother possessed and the colour coordinated disaster that her grandparents’ house had been back then.
A pink, white and turquoise bathroom? Who picked that out?
Of course, she also remembered her grandmother’s eyesight had been horrible, so that could explain a lot of the décor.
She snorted again, and rolled onto her back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she watched the fan rotated wildly. Sometimes she entertained thoughts of the damn thing crashing down on her.
Not that she really wanted that, just her mind wandered to strange places sometimes.
Like when she was driving to work, or the market, or anywhere, and began to think about what might happen if she blew the red light and drove straight into oncoming traffic.
She didn’t really want to die; she just thought of morbid things. Mostly borne out of curiosity than any real mental ailment.
Not that her family believed her, of course.
“Hon, I’m going to the store, do you want anything?” her husband asks as he comes down the stairs.
She doesn’t even glance at him. What’s the point? She already knows what he looks like.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want to get fatter,” she calls out absently. She hears him grumble under his breath.
She’s upset him with her comment.
Well, tough.
“Maybe some juice,” she tries to compromise.
He just grunts a reply.
It doesn’t surprise her. After all, isn’t that how men communicate anyway? Yeah, no, sure, grunt?
She finally gives a small chuckle.
“Drive carefully,” she muttered.
He cracks a barely-there smile at her concern.
“You worry too much,” he teases.
“No I don’t.”
He leaves at last; she now has the house to herself. Not that she’d do much while he’s away, anyway.
She feels bad, sometimes. Her husband does try to make her happy; her problems aren’t his fault. But he seems to think it so. She’d given up trying to convince him otherwise. So she accused him of thinking he’s all important, if he thinks everything is his fault.
That little comment had led to a spectacular row.
She thinks about switching the television on, but she knows she won’t find anything. She smirks at this; they pay a hundred twenty-five dollars for five hundred channels, and there’s never anything on.
She knows she’s making herself useless, and her husband is getting tired of dealing with her moods. She already has little to nothing to do with her family, she wonders just how long it’ll take her to irritate her husband so much he’ll just up and leave.
He really has extraordinary patience.
Perhaps she should leave him; the ultimate act of selflessness.
She laughs out loud at this. It wouldn’t be selflessness. She wouldn’t be doing it for him.
Oh sure, she’d justify it in her mind that she was just trying to do what’s best for him, but she’d know deep down, it was just so she’d feel less guilty about the pain she’s putting him through. None of it would be for his sake.
‘You selfish little bitch!’
Her step brother was right; she was selfish. He was also probably right to do…
‘NO,’ she thought firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
She hadn’t said anything at first, until her mother took her to the hospital, saying that it’d make her better. The people there would ‘fix’ her.
It had been horrible.
It seemed like all of the girls there had been raped or abused in some way. Hell, some of the boys were too.
She supposed she fit it.
A place full of children that parents dropped off because they were sick of dealing with them.
She was lucky she hadn’t been in there for months, like some of the kids had been.
Still, a couple weeks there had been enough.
The woman sighed; that was a long time ago. It didn’t matter. Although, she thought about it sometimes, and became angry at herself for not telling the social worker that had been there everything. He would have found her a new home…
But, if she’d moved, she never would have met her husband.
She also wouldn’t have met her ex.
Fucking stalker.
She sure knew how to pick them.
Her mother’s husband had approved whole-heartedly of him.
That should have been her first clue.
‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk.’
She shifted back onto her side. What an ugly kitchen. She vaguely remembered it being turquoise and grey. She really needed to redecorate. If she could get motivated. She’d also repaint the living room.
Mint green made her want to heave.
Of course, she’d probably just wind up white-washing everything. That way, it’d all match. And she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t seem to muster the will to do so. She must’ve lain on the couch for awhile, because she didn’t get back up until her husband came home.
She sat up, slightly startled. She’d never outgrown her anxiety of being home alone…or her fear of someone breaking in. This was ridiculous; seeing as they lived in the middle of freaking nowhere. Who the hell would break in to their house.
Although, sometimes she worried her ex would find her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes with a sheepish half-smile.
“Wasn’t scared,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
He just smiles at her again.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything…”
She doesn’t correct him, reminding him that she did, in fact, request juice.
“…but I picked up some cinnamon cookies. I know how much you like them, you sugar-fiend.”
Yes, she did like them, her nana used to make them for her. And peanut butter cookies. For after school. But sometimes she would get them in her lunch.
He hands her the plastic container holding the cookies, and heads into the kitchen, presumably to put the rest of the groceries away.
“And before you ask, I did remember to pick you up some juice. I hope apple is okay.”
“It’s fine,” she replies, looking down at the container.
The cookies are golden brown…
…and her kitchen is the same hideous turquoise she remembers it as.
The sight makes her smile.
Well, tough.
“Maybe some juice,” she tries to compromise.
He just grunts a reply.
It doesn’t surprise her. After all, isn’t that how men communicate anyway? Yeah, no, sure, grunt?
She finally gives a small chuckle.
“Drive carefully,” she muttered.
He cracks a barely-there smile at her concern.
“You worry too much,” he teases.
“No I don’t.”
He leaves at last; she now has the house to herself. Not that she’d do much while he’s away, anyway.
She feels bad, sometimes. Her husband does try to make her happy; her problems aren’t his fault. But he seems to think it so. She’d given up trying to convince him otherwise. So she accused him of thinking he’s all important, if he thinks everything is his fault.
That little comment had led to a spectacular row.
She thinks about switching the television on, but she knows she won’t find anything. She smirks at this; they pay a hundred twenty-five dollars for five hundred channels, and there’s never anything on.
She knows she’s making herself useless, and her husband is getting tired of dealing with her moods. She already has little to nothing to do with her family, she wonders just how long it’ll take her to irritate her husband so much he’ll just up and leave.
He really has extraordinary patience.
Perhaps she should leave him; the ultimate act of selflessness.
She laughs out loud at this. It wouldn’t be selflessness. She wouldn’t be doing it for him.
Oh sure, she’d justify it in her mind that she was just trying to do what’s best for him, but she’d know deep down, it was just so she’d feel less guilty about the pain she’s putting him through. None of it would be for his sake.
‘You selfish little bitch!’
Her step brother was right; she was selfish. He was also probably right to do…
‘NO,’ she thought firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
She hadn’t said anything at first, until her mother took her to the hospital, saying that it’d make her better. The people there would ‘fix’ her.
It had been horrible.
It seemed like all of the girls there had been raped or abused in some way. Hell, some of the boys were too.
She supposed she fit it.
A place full of children that parents dropped off because they were sick of dealing with them.
She was lucky she hadn’t been in there for months, like some of the kids had been.
Still, a couple weeks there had been enough.
The woman sighed; that was a long time ago. It didn’t matter. Although, she thought about it sometimes, and became angry at herself for not telling the social worker that had been there everything. He would have found her a new home…
But, if she’d moved, she never would have met her husband.
She also wouldn’t have met her ex.
Fucking stalker.
She sure knew how to pick them.
Her mother’s husband had approved whole-heartedly of him.
That should have been her first clue.
‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk.’
She shifted back onto her side. What an ugly kitchen. She vaguely remembered it being turquoise and grey. She really needed to redecorate. If she could get motivated. She’d also repaint the living room.
Mint green made her want to heave.
Of course, she’d probably just wind up white-washing everything. That way, it’d all match. And she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t seem to muster the will to do so. She must’ve lain on the couch for awhile, because she didn’t get back up until her husband came home.
She sat up, slightly startled. She’d never outgrown her anxiety of being home alone…or her fear of someone breaking in. This was ridiculous; seeing as they lived in the middle of freaking nowhere. Who the hell would break in to their house.
Although, sometimes she worried her ex would find her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes with a sheepish half-smile.
“Wasn’t scared,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
He just smiles at her again.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything…”
She doesn’t correct him, reminding him that she did, in fact, request juice.
“…but I picked up some cinnamon cookies. I know how much you like them, you sugar-fiend.”
Yes, she did like them, her nana used to make them for her. And peanut butter cookies. For after school. But sometimes she would get them in her lunch.
He hands her the plastic container holding the cookies, and heads into the kitchen, presumably to put the rest of the groceries away.
“And before you ask, I did remember to pick you up some juice. I hope apple is okay.”
“It’s fine,” she replies, looking down at the container.
The cookies are golden brown…
…and her kitchen is the same hideous turquoise she remembers it as.
The sight makes her smile.
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I don't know...I feel like I'm trying to be too profound in this piece. Maybe I'll try to tone it down next time, or revise it again. I'm not sure.
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