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Color Girl

At first we bonded over colors.

She had bright red hair. Mine was a sun bleached blonde.

Together it looked orange.

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She liked to draw. Happy things. Full of color.

Blue for the sky.

Green for the grass

And for the center of interest, she used every color in the world, and then some.

Pink for petals.

Yellow for a butterfly.

Purple for a something that should not have been purple. But she always made it work.

Always.

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Then we bonded over silence.

She was too busy drawing, blending together every color of the rainbow. I was too busy reading. It helped me escape from parents that weren’t really there anyways.

But that was ok. I liked the quiet and so did she. There were no interruptions.

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We became friends. It was an interesting pairing. The golden boy with and wild side, who just wanted to be noticed by the two people who couldn’t care less, and the small, quiet girl, who wished more than anything that she would just disappear.

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But when we started middle school, she was gone. Disappeared just like she always told me she wanted to.

Where’d you go, color girl?

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Things were different. I got wilder. I got my first tattoo; I was 13. Being a minor, no problem. I had friends in all sorts of places. I lost my virginity the next year.

I was 14.

She was a Junior.

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My parents died not that much later. In Asia, or where ever they were.

They forgot about me again. I wasn’t even mentioned in their f***ing will.

But that’s ok. I did the same thing I always did when something major happened in my life. I got another tat. This time it was in Italian. It was just one word.

Finally

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Half way through high school, she came back.

Her hair was duller, but it was still red. It was still a red that when mixed with blonde hair made orange.

And she still drew, but my tattoos had more color then her pictures.

But they still had color.

Black and browns for the dark backgrounds.

Red, purple and pale fleshy tones for the center of interest.

Red for blood.

Purple for the bruises.

And the rest for the broken body.

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We bonded again.

Bonded over color.

Bonded over silence.

Bonded over dead parents.

Bonded over bruises.

Bonded over scars.

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With every scar, there was a story, and we exchanged them for hours.

“Knife. Age 12. I got pencil on the wall.”

“Cigar. Age 14. I talked back to an asshole of a foster parent.”

And on, and on, and on it went.

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But…she left again.

I must have scared her off.

Oh, well.

She’ll come back, right?

Right?

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I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

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Who was I kidding?

She’s never coming back.

Hey, color girl, can you hear me?

I really did like you.

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But it wasn’t enough, was it?

Because I’m never enough, am I?

I never am.

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I waited again.

It was half way through collage.

Maybe she had this thing with showing up half way through stuff.

I was wrong.

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I did see her again.

She was different.

I was different.

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There was no more color.

I covered mine up with expensive jacket sleeves.

She just stopped.

It was gone.

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There was no more silence.

I filled it up with serious talk about figures and practical matters.

She filled it up with giggles and ditzy comments.

Hey, what ever keeps you in a job.

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She said she was happy.

Really happy.

What does he give you, girl without color?

More bruises?

A job where you have to throw up everything you eat in order to do it?

Scars in places that even when you walk down the catwalk in heels so high, and dresses so short, no one would guess they’re there?

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What did I give you?

Color?

Silence?

Friendship?

Am I really that bad?

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I miss you, color girl.

So much.

So, so much.





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