Mother is not quite the once beautiful, cracked seaglass that Father is, but she is not as vibrant as she once was, either. Believe me, I know. I watched her spirit go from brilliant emerald green flecked with spots of bright golden sunshine to dull olive flecked here and there with slightly goldish saffron. Such a weathered soul is Mother's, worn down by the delicate silver claws of time, the cruel bloody talons of war. I see a past where Mother may have loved me just as much as she loves my brother, but that past is long dead and impossible to revive, covered with a thin film of minuscule grey and silver threads like rain.
Or cobwebs.
I'd rather believe it's rain.
Like Father, I sometimes catch glimpses of Mother's old soul, when she's laughing with my brother or grinning at Clearsight, his girlfriend. Sometimes I see it in the few moments when she and Father are being kind to each other, though those moments are small. I know they love each other, though. I refuse to believe otherwise.
No matter what my colours might say.
I refuse.
YOU ARE READING
synesthete
Fanfiction"'Definitely azure inside.[...] I like the way she knits.'" This is how Whiteout, as a dragonet with synesthesia, views the world, and, more importantly, the souls of her family and friends.
