orange

' I'm so afraid of what you see inside.
You say I'm not alone, but I am petrified. '
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I, for one, think that every story deserves a color. Some people's stories are yellow, happy and carefree. Some people's stories are red, angry and reserved. Some are blue, calm and soothing, maybe rough and scary sometimes, but overall pretty chill.

My story? My story is orange. Orange cannot be ignored. Orange is persistent, it doesn't leave you alone. My story doesn't leave me alone, either.

But orange can also be soft; it's the color of flowers and fruit and everything beautiful in-between.

And I like to think that applies to my story, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The first time life really gave me crap was when I was nine.

It had been a normal day for me, and I was feeling pretty fine, walking home from school. That all changed pretty quickly.

I heard a noise from an alley about ten feet in front of me. I wasn't sure what was happening, until I heard crashes and a yell. My little feet walked a little faster, they do say curiosity killed the cat. Sometimes I wish it had killed me, too, because what I saw would change my life forever.

I stared into the alley, seeing two men there, one with a large knife pinning the other man to the wall. There were grunts, and the man with the knife said something about how he wanted the money, and the other one whimpered and said there was no money to want.

What happened next I've remembered a million times and it's still a dull blur, but what I've managed to recall is this:

The man with the knife slit the the throat of the man on the wall, and then proceeding to stab him in the chest four times. Realizing what he'd done, the killer threw the knife and the body in the dumpster in his hurry to leave, but saw me and grabbed me by the arm. He spoke in a low voice that if I told anyone what had happened in that alley that he'd find me and kill me just like the man in the dumpster. Did I understand?

The initial shock of the horror left me speechless, only being able to nod in terror, as his blood-covered hands gripped my forearm. He let me go and then ran off, leaving nine year old me with nothing but a Pokémon backpack and a dead man's blood on my arm.

I tried to stay true to my 'promise' to the killer man, already having nightmares and begging my mom to drive me to school because I was too terrified to walk anymore. But, after seeing a missing ad with the dead man's face on it, I realized that I had to tell someone.

Instead of telling my mom like a normal kid, I called 911 myself, and told them how I had information on the case, which, turns out, was not the best idea for me because they came to our house expecting some grown person to have a crucial lead for them, when all they found was a scared little nine year old who'd seen things he shouldn't have.

Their methods for getting suspect clues were not exactly kid-friendly. They brought in professional detectives and grilled me until I was in tears. I hated every minute of it.

After finally getting everything out of me, they went to the alley and found the body and weapon, and the sloppy clean up job on the murderer's part led them to the exact man and got perfect evidence. He was arrested, and put on trial, pleading guilty. A week later, it was ruled that he would get 20 years in prison for what he'd done. (I secretly wanted him to be locked up forever, but the judge didn't seem to agree with me on that stance.)