Don't disturb my studies! | Lookism various

Prologue. Enter [Name] [Last Name]

People aren't born equal.

It's something you learn at a young age. The first time you shoot a greeting, your lips curling into a soft smile, you find the colour red spots your vision.

The colour red signifies all that you wish you were.

It doesn't matter. Your fists are scrunched, tightly wrapped in falling bandages, and the pretty, small smile you hold fades into the remains of a baby frown. The bruises are a fading ombré of purple and yellow. They're not red anymore, but you swear the velvet tint haunts you. It comes in the form of many. First, your name; the sound of each syllable spits out a furry of void regret. Second, your appearance; the melting shades of your scarred skin, the dead, unregenerate red cells painting the soaring world of your own lips, the uneven layers of hair that frame all but your eyes, and those eyebrows—uncut and messy in ways more than one. Third is your personality; it's picture perfect in every possible sense, but the essence of regret causes you to look back and wonder what the future could have been. Echoes that scream your name, that mimic your pretty, little face, and embrace the truth of your very being. Alone, you aren't anything special. It's the colour red that counts.

It happens each morning just as it happens each night, you brush your teeth, bandage the peeling skin that cries wolf, and head off to school. It repeats again, again, and again. Nothing changes. Your mother greets you at the door, her sweet voice of ignorance makes you feel the urge to puke, and your father, firm and gentle, waves a sorrowful hand while skimming through the morning paper.

Whilst his gaze reads over each word with careful ease, you slip the latest report card by his side. He makes haste in blinking away the spots of scars and cuts healing the corners of your wrapped fingers. His nod of approval gives you the go, and your lips form the shadow of a reappearing smile.

"I got the highest in my class," you say. The joints of your knuckles brush the falling strands that decorate your brimming gaze. It's not a statement, rather it's an affirmation of selfishness. "I beat out everyone else in school. Not just highest in my class, but highest in my grade."

The soft embrace of your mother falls across the school jacket framing your shoulders. She whispers, and it may be a little too late for her to notice, but it's the thought that counts, "Good job, my dear."

"Thank you," you reply simply.

Your father gives you another glance, except this time, a glimmer of hope ignites a fierce passion you didn't know existed. His forehead scrunches upwards, the brief wrinkles of his youthful skin smoothing the wandering creases, before he lands on a relaxed, raised brow. He nods again, and you can see his want to speak, to greet you, to hug you, and to do everything but remain quiet, but he can't. His voice doesn't escape the confines of his trembling lips. It doesn't matter. He's happy for you. Though his words don't sing, and your actions don't reach, he knows enough what you try to convey with the delayed motions of your palms.

You reach out your pointer finger, before moving your hands along. The movement ends on a firm smack down. Your mouth parts to sign the vowels and constants, "How has your day been?"

Your father reaches out his two hands, his palms facing outwards, shaking them from side to side. He too mouths the sounds, and though the words don't actually leave him, they still get across, "I'm great".

"All right," you whisper, chopping your left hand straight into the palm of your right.

He ignores the trembles and flinches you let slip, grabbing the both of your hands in a gentle grip, as he eyes your mother with a firm smile. She lets go of your shoulders. Her footsteps are sudden, just as they appear, they disappear, and reappear once more. A vibrant light shines onto her figure. It may just have been the broken lights that your father didn't have time to fix, or it may have been her true nature; your mother is loving and caring in removing the grip your father has on your hands. She places a first aid kit onto the wooden table, softly, so as to not startle your father with the abrupt noise.

She says, a gentle grin embracing her delicately plastered lips, "[name], the next time you need to patch yourself up, just let me know."

Your cheeks puff up in response. "No."

"You'll be worrying me more by not coming to me, you know that?" she replies. Her eyes read the letters that float through your mind. "I'm your mother and therefore it's my job to worry about you."

"You're already busy enough," you mumble, your hazy eyes swirling in an anticipatory passion, as you watch her handle your wounds with such familiar ease. She unties the decorated bandages surrounding the skin that threatened to tear.

It's always red, but it comes, and just as abrupt in nature, the bruises you hold welcome the shimmering blue swirling across the outside sky.

Your mother runs her fingers once, twice, then once more, over the ragged surface of your epidermis. The barrier of protection re-enables, and you feel like you're in heaven. She kisses your hands, a single peck for each knuckle, ignoring the whines of embarrassment that do nothing but flatter her.

"All better, my little [name]." She grins.

A warm hue enriches the vivid shades highlighting the strands of hair. And, you decide, that, yes, people aren't born equal. It's a fact you must know. So you suppose, whilst your name is something you deem unlucky, your scarred skin is something you despise, those brows of yours are something you wish to rid yourself of, and those foreign traits of yours that shape you are something irreplaceable, you are special. You aren't special in a way that exists alongside red; alongside the violence of the corrupting world. It's the colour blue that counts.

You are red. In a world of darkness, you are darker in every way imaginable. Though you know this, it helps just the smallest bit to know that your mother is yellow, and your father is blue. You are the child of a teenage single mother, and a man, who you call your father, that loves you as though you are his own. Your individuality can't be replicated at all, and everything you have to give is the product of these two worlds.

From the corner of your eye, the sun sets.

It's funny. In the future, you might just like the colour red a little bit more.