The Names of Follia

Chapter Three

Chapter three

Sitting in a seat on a plane is normal, and Follia is normal. She isn't Grey, Black and White don't hate each other, and the Time is 4:15 AM.

There's a baby and her mother next to Follia, and the baby has been staring at Follia the entire time. Follia only began to stare back when she wanted to know why. What did the baby know?

The baby that has a mop of dirty blond hair and stark green eyes that hold wisdom in them Follia can't begin to comprehend. The baby in overalls and a lime green shirt that hasn't taken its wide and seeing eyes off Follia in three torturous hours. Follia wonders if the baby can talk to God.

If the baby knows why God wrote Follia on White paper with Black ink. Follia looks away. Follia is normal. Follia is calm. Follia has no irrational fear of the way the atmosphere must be thinner with how high up they are, or how when Icarus flew this close to the sun his wings melted and he fell.

Time is not relative, White and Black don't hate each other, and Follia isn't losing her mind. Follia is normal and Van Gogh was insane and she doesn't want nuts from the woman stalking down the aisle with her shirt one button too revealing.

"Peanuts?"

"No, thank you," Follia is normal and she sounds normal, and the baby is still staring at her, "Your son is beautiful," The mother looks over and smiles at Follia, and Follia smiles back.

"Thank you, his name is Salvatore," Follia nods.

"Savior, in Italian, correct?" The mother's eyes widen in surprise and she nods.

"And yours?"

"Follia, my father is also Italian."

"Insanity?"

"He was always a fan of the dramatics of life," Follia was insanity and Grey.

"Ah, makes sense," The woman turned away and the baby continued to stare into Follia's eyes. Savior, you do know God, don't you?

Follia wondered if this was hell, the ocean of people in an open space that still seems so cramped. People that aren't insane, and Follia is losing her mind, but everything is Cream colored and she's stuck waiting for her White bag to move along the Black belt.

This airport is hell and Follia is Grey and Bellé is Hot Pink and running at Follia in hopes that she can make Grey beautiful instead of alone. Coco arms and eyes of ivy engulf black and white in an embrace of colors that can only be described as warm.

When Grey and Hot Pink meet they don't meld, they marble. White and Black mix to make Grey, but Hot Pink can never mix with Grey because they are a pair but don't match.

Bellé is here and Follia can feel thoughts become less foggy, clearer, because Grey looks muddy alone, but when Hot Pink is next to Grey it looks like it exists.

"Follia," Bellé is coco and ivy and walking up to her is a man made of pegmatite and pure red roses.

"Bellé," Follia thinks that when Bellé says her name it sounds like a hymn for God, and when Follia says Bellé's name it sounds like a lost lover whispering the other's name as if they will disappear.

"Hello," The man made of pegmatite and red roses says, with a voice that reminds Follia of sandpaper on metal. If Follia is Grey, Bellé is Hot Pink, and this man is Cyan. Cyan and Hot Pink match, but Follia is Grey and Grey can only pair with Hot Pink.

"Follia, this is Liam," Hot Pink says to Grey, and Follia is confused. Because Bellé is Hot Pink, and Liam is Cyan, but Hot Pink looks so much better with Yellow.

"Hello Liam, I'm-"

"I'm well aware who you are," Ah. Another problem that Follia has with pegmatite, red roses, and Cyan. Cyan isn't a pretty color. Cyan is rude, and deceiving. Grey doesn't exist, Hot Pink is beautiful, and Cyan is deceitful.

"Ah, alright. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you," A hand of black and white extended to pegmatite and red roses and they never connect. Follia just retracts her hand and rubs it against her dress, the atmosphere seemed thin while she flew in God's domain, but this is far worse.

"Liam, come on, you asked to come-"

"No, Bellé I understand," And Follia did. Hot Pink has to risk everything when they pair with Grey, Cyan has a right to be upset.

"Let's go, I have work in an hour," Liam, the color Cyan.

"Liam, you're being an asshole," Follia ignores the rest of the conversation.

Follia thinks that Time is Grey. How can someone quantify the movement of numbers to describe memories in chronological order? Time is relative, and human beings move through it like a knife in butter, coming out covered in the Lie that Time is.