A Splatter of Other #Wattys2015

I

I've always wondered what colour my eyes are. My hair. My skin. But all I know is shades. Black, white, grey. My mother tells me my eyes are green, like fresh grass. My hair is pale gold. My skin is honey brown. But all these words make no sense to me. Pale is light grey, so is honey, so am I. Mother says the world with colour is beautiful, but overwhelming sometimes. That 'colours' can be warm, cold, happy, sad. I don't understand how colours can feel anything, our speckled grey couch doesn't look particularly joyous, but she says I'll understand when I'm older, when I find my other half.....If. So I just nod and smile. I'm not as optimistic as my Mother, for all I know he or she is on the other side of this inconsequential planet. If that's the case varying shades of grey is all I'm destined to see.

I stand, looking at the mirror now. My face is looking sallow, I have bags under my eyes. I've been having strange dreams lately, flashes of 'others.' Colours I've never seen before. I always wake up, hopeful that when I turn on my bedside lamp that they will be real. But they never are, and I always forget about it in the end. I splash half a cup of water over my face, before cleaning my hands in the same liquid. I have to get to school, with a sigh I leave the bathroom. I hop down the stairs, taking two at a time. The smell of pancakes greet me as I enter the kitchen.

We live in in a two-story oblong, one of many, although it is slightly larger than the others. Our community housing is packed into twelve streets, like spokes, all leading to the business centre.

Father sits at the table reading in old, frayed book. I recognise the burnt cover, it's his atlas. His chair groans as he shifts, so when I sit I try to be careful, starting when the seat cracks. It holds though and I pick up my utensils. Mother joins us a moment later, a half-smile on her face.

"Do you know what you're learning at school today?"

"First aid. Outsiders have been sneaking in, someone got hurt," I reply, shovelling food into my mouth.

"Oh, I heard about that. Wasn't it Patty, Alok?" He grunts, nodding as he turned a page. "They need to boost guards," she sighs, taking a sip from her chipped mug. "You should go, Franceska, it's nearly ten." I hop up, giving my parents a kiss each before grabbing my leather duffle bag and heading out the door.

Either side of the street doors are opening, and children are hopping down the steps, bidding parents goodbye. The road itself is worn and cracked, moss and roots peak out of the wounds. Beautiful oak trees line either side, casting shadows across the ground. I walk along, head down, kicking pebbles. One startles a cat hidden in a bush, and I jump as it leaps from its cover, yowling in anger. I hurry to the Centre, and relax as people surround me.

I wave and smile, politely greeting neighbours and friends as I make my way towards Town Hall. I pass by a stall of flowers, and stop. Flowers are such a rarity here. They must have come from the smaller next town over, Evergreen, the supplier for most of our food. We are an industrialised town, many spending hours a day slaving away to make the necessary products for daily life here in Arrow.

I pick up a rose, inhaling the sweet heady scent with a smile. I gaze across the street, taking in the familiar grey scale scenes before me. Only, something wasn't familiar. The sun is out for once, and it is a relatively warm day, so people are out enjoying the change in weather. So what confuses me is the fact that there are several men wandering around, dressed in ankle-length trench coats and low tipped hats. If they wanted to wander unnoticed they're going about it the wrong way. People openly stare, wary and confused.

"Do you think they're Outsiders?" the florists enquires fearfully, peeking out from behind me.

"I don't know," I frown, returning the rose and picking up another one labelled 'Yellow.' "Perhaps they're from further South? That would explain the clothing." Before the woman could reply, there was a resounding bang, like a muffled dynamite explosion, and chaos erupted. I instinctively drop to the ground, remembering all the classes I'd taken, warning me if I ever heard that sound I should drop and hide. I scurry under the table, pushing past buckets of flowers, some of which have thorns that tear at my skin. I know that sound, everyone does. One word ricochets around my head. Gun.

The florist whimpers and I shush her, peeking out from under the cloth. More gun shots have joined the frenzy, the guards. People are running everywhere, and one man, a particularly large one, with a small tuft of hair that the kids of Arrow refer to as Pumpkin, is waddling towards me, beady black eyes glinting with terror. Instinctively I climb out of cover, ready to help him. He sees me, relief clear on his sweaty face, and we reach for one another. My fingers barely brush his when a loud bang cause him to halt. A bloom of colour I have never seen in real life explodes from his chest, splattering across my face. It's warm and sticky when I reach up to touch it as he slumps to the ground before me. Scarlet. Mama had always described blood as scarlet. It's a harsh, painful colour, contrasting violently with my grey fingers, and in a daze I look up. Into the eyes of the man who'd shot him. Into coloured eyes.

******

My heart stops. My eyes widen. No, this can't be happening. It wasn't possible. Not him, this murderer. Anyone but him. I see his eyes widen too, eyes of a colour so fresh, warm, intense, and wonder what he's seeing. Colours? I clench my fist around the rose still in my hand, the thorns digging in. As I stare, hypnotised, he opens his mouth, as if to speak to me. Before I can hear what he says, another armed man appears behind him and speaks urgently in his ear. The man with no colour glances at me, and says something else. The coloured one nods, and in a flash they turn, disappearing between a gap in the buildings, just as reinforcements spill out into the Centre.

One comes up to me, asks if I'm hurt. I tell him it's not my blood. Sounds blur together, and I can't understand what he's saying. I barely register as he shouts and grabs me, the rose falling from my hand as he forced me through a doorway. I dully realise I'm going into shock, but don't have time for anything else and an explosion tears through the ground, knocking us off our feet. Glass falls, tinkling like rain on and around me, dust rolls through the doorway. My ears ring, and the world spins dangerously. Taking a deep breath, I come to my senses, and the guard is helping me to my feet, telling me to get home as fast as I can, in case any of the men are still here, though I can tell by the sound of his voice he doubts it.

I step out into a world of white, dust from rubble sifts through the air, and the darker shade of smoke curls through it, blocking out the sun. Everything and everyone is covered in a layer of white. People scream and wail, shout and cry. Some walk in a daze, ignoring those at their feet. I pull my shirt over my nose and mouth, wincing at the burn in my eyes. There are people, dead and alive, lying in my way. I ignore them, determined to get home and see my parents safe. It took longer than usual, many people were milling around, and I had to climb over rubble. It was frightening how only half a kilometre away there was nothing. You could almost forget what had happened. I could almost forget.

I climb up the stairs, and push through the front door of my home, trekking dust across the entrance mat. Almost immediately Mother bursts through the door and latches herself onto me, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh baby, my darling girl, are you hurt?" She pulls back and gasps, "you're bleeding!"

"It's not mine," I murmur.

"You have a gash in your forehead. Let me clean it up." I follow her, barely making a noise as she scrubs the dust off my face and dabs alcohol on the wound. Grabbing a needle and medical thread from the emergency kit she reaches up and begins to stitch up the mess. Intent on her work, her tears dry up and she is focused, no longer the wet mess I'd seen earlier. Some part of me felt proud at her strength. Afterwards she leads me upstairs, where she undresses me and settles me in the hot bath she must have prepared for herself. Sundays are Bath Day for our street, but I suppose this can be an exception. I lie there for some time, allowing the heat to sink into my bones and revitalise me. I scrub my body raw, removing all traces of dust and blood, before leaning back and closing my eyes. The heat lifts me, carrying me into a peaceful darkness.