How Not to Kidnap a Guy

6. 𝘾𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙊𝙛 𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙨: 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘐𝘐

SHARAV

The Center Area railway station is only ten minutes away and the sky is painted red and orange, hinting that the night's not so far away.

We've been traveling in this rattling train for the past two hours through desolate patches of fallowland before we reached the Center's city. The brat didn't leave me alone even for a second throughout the whole journey. He swore at me, laughed at me, and made fun of me, forgetting that I'm a gangster.

From all his yapping, I almost know everybody from his huge-ass family, their friends, and their neighbors. His cats Aishwarya and Angelina love the fish fry bought from his neighbor's friend's shop, his father shaves his beard but doesn't trim his mustache, his aunt is a God at cooking fish soup... and many more unnecessary info-dumps.

Being a civilian, I thought he'd get way too traumatized from the murder at the railway station, but I guess he was quick to forget it. We never talked about it. And I also think that all of his yapping about random shit is his coping mechanism.

But after we crossed the fallow land to the prime city, he suddenly stopped talking. I guess he's as scared as me about coming to the Center. He's been looking very anxious from the moment the conductor announced that we'd be getting to our destination in a few minutes.

However, the silence I once loved feels numbing now, even if I met this always-laughing idiot only two days ago. The only things filling the silence are the rhythmic clatters of the railway tracks and the 80's party songs. Leaning on his seat with his legs raised, he has been looking out the window for the past fifteen minutes, the orange light dramatizing his face. I hate this silence and I don't know how to break it. Ah. Small talk exists right?

"What's your favorite color?" I ask.

He confusedly looks into my eyes and asks, "What?"

I spell it out, "What is your favorite color?"

There. He goes laughing like a lunatic again. What's there in that question that makes him laugh so much?

"You know, that's such an odd question to ask out of the blue!" he says, holding back his laughter. "Well, well, anyhow. My favorite color..." He looks out the window again, his eyes looking into the far distance. "Every color."

"Every color?"

"Yes, every color has its beauty," he asserts, his voice showing no signs of doubt. He said that every color has its beauty. But how? Red is blood: it shows violence. Blue is water: it shows drowning. Yellow is yellow: ew, it's just ugly. How does he like all of this?

"What's your favorite color?" he asks, breaking my chain of thoughts.

"My favorite color? I don't like any color," I say.

"What the fuck, you don't like any color?" He leans forward from his seat, his hands on his chin.

"Maybe it's not that I hate the colors themselves, but the objects they're associated with... probably that."

"Then just associate better stuff with them?"

"Well, you're right... But I just don't want to. It's not like the ugly stuff in that color will vanish if I just associate better stuff with it."

"That's right, but you can just ignore 'em. Just look at the pretty stuff, you see?"

Damn, that's kinda obvious, but he makes it sound so philosophical. I nod while smiling and he grins, showing all of his thirty-two teeth. Finally, I've successfully pulled him outta his deep thoughts, but now he's just... staring at me. With his hands on his cheeks and a weird smile on his face.