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Colors

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It was like seeing color for the first time.

It was so warm, so pleasant. Her skin was so soft against mine, her hand on my cheek so gentle.

I wanted to feel it forever. I wanted to be with her forever.

I came to yearn for her bright smiles and kind words. She occupied my mind every night, sleepless hours filled only with her colors. She shone so brightly, and I dared not to look away.

I didn’t mind being blinded by affection.

Of course, love isn’t always so kind. There was jealousy, the familiar burning feeling in my stomach that threatened to envelop me entirely. They were dark, melancholic colors, monochrome shades bubbling within me. I grew to despise these colors, and in turn, grew to loathe those she cared for, those she exchanged laughs and smiles with.

They weren’t me, after all.

I wasn’t sure how to handle the feeling. I didn’t know how to react, what to do. I didn’t mean to wind the art room wires, sharp and edged for slicing through clay, around her best friend’s neck. I didn’t mean to pull on the ends, only stopping when I felt the resistance give way and the wire slice through skin, like a block of clay.

I loved her. And I would do anything for love.

After the body was discovered, she mourned for weeks on end. I can’t imagine why; she still had me, after all. Nonetheless, I was there to console her, to wipe away her tears and revel in the feeling of her face against my shoulder.

I didn’t want to let go of that feeling. A week later, I strung her brother up with art room wire, leaving him to dry like an icy purple canvas.

I was, once again, there to comfort her.

How pleasant it was. I felt the jealousy leave me with every victim, the knot in my heart shrinking and unraveling with each one. The colors grew more vivid around me, on my hands and on my clothing. I could see them clearly, and I came to appreciate the bright hues.

She seemed to be growing darker, however. Her shining eyes dulled, and her fair skin grew even paler. She was silent, reserved, and she walked with her back hunched and arms drawn into her body. The color was fading from her.

I gave her some of my color. I passed on my excess pigment through her hands and her lips, blotting my shades against her skin. She brightened up, like a blank canvas feeling paint for the first time.
I was happy to help. I could feel new color surging within me with every shade I gave to her. The wires grew crooked and stained, dried maroon marks that wouldn’t leave with scrubbing. I came to appreciate that color, as well.

Eventually, we grew closer. Just as I had hoped we would.

I hid my true colors from her, and only showed her cheerful, contrasting hues. She saw only the best parts of me, and I was careful not to let the dark shades slip. I watched her brighten, watched her become dependent on my colors to supplement hers. I yearned for that feeling of dependence, and my wires weakened with skin and bone.

At last, she loved me.

There was nothing I had wanted more, and the colors within me blossomed with my joy. It was like a cycle, the color wheel model hanging in the art room. I grew happier, and she did in turn.

She needed me. And I needed her.

Isn’t that what love is?

Meeting her was like seeing color for the first time. And the only color I needed to see was bright crimson.




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