Changing Colors
Chapter One
London, England
The fog was heavy, but what was new? It seemed that every time I had visited England, fog followed like a lost puppy. The streets were cluttered, and it was a struggle to get through. Anyone watching would have seen a single boy on an empty street, pretending to snake and weave through a heavy crowd. The thoughts were what killed you. Near every closed street vendor was a memory, two memories, four, or even 20 memories blocking my way. The images of people, ranging in colors from violet to lemon, barricaded each and every turn of the once crowded area. Some people had more than one thought or memory about the area. Three or four images of the same green man, with the same vest and bowler hat, would float through each other, only to switch places with one another. I sighed, trying to pick out the only color or shape I needed.
Kill him. The voice pleaded, begged, and prayed, as if it needed to be shown mercy. As if it were hurt; as if it were scared. Kill him. The voice tried to reason, tried to show its emotions. There were none. Kill him, kill him now. The voice became stronger, the voice demanded the task of me. I followed the streaking red color into a place where bright bold colors mixed with realistic, dull ones. I pushed through two crowds now, those of memories and of people, tracking the vibrant red. The voice screamed, commanding me to follow its will. No anger, no emotion. Just blood.
The man with the monocle. The colors matched up as the memories halted. I ducked into an inverted doorway, changing into the man with the bowler hat, who was long dead by now. All that remained were his memories, and that was enough.
The man with the monocle was interested in buying a bunch of bananas, yellow and fresh. The vendor was an honest woman, and she searched through the crate, trying to find the man her best bunch. I swiped my finger through the air, then made a little circle with it. She looked at the man, who was reaching for the bananas in her hand, and set the bunch back with the others.
“Can I not have that, ma'am?” The man with the monocle was just as confused as she was, but he was still trying to be polite.
“I'm sorry sir.” She told him earnestly, “I don't know what I was thinking, handing you a sack of oranges. Let me find you the bananas.” She searched every crate she had, searching for the very thing she had just put down. She was now confused; why did she have two crates of oranges, but no bananas?
“Ma'am, would you care to give me those bananas you just put down?” She looked at him, and he looked at her again. She did not see the bananas the way everyone else did. She had been Altered.
Seizing the opportunity of confusion, I slipped behind the vender, removing her knife from her cutting board. I nearly glided around her stand, and behind the man with the monocle.
As I stabbed, the familiar red curtain fell before my eyes. Satan's satin, woven purely from the blood of the murdered. When I opened my eyes, the red pall turned into flashing red police lights. A crowd had gathered. I was on my knees, the knife stuck in the back of the man with the monocle. I waved my hand near a building, and steps started to form. As the police came, I took each step one at a time, leading me to the rooftop. Every step crumbled to nothing as I removed my weight off of it, and moved to the next one. From the roof, I spread my arms out, and breathed in the fog. The man with the monocle was now forgotten to everyone but myself. The market place's business resumed as police rubbed their heads, trying to remember why they had gathered in the first place. Following the loss of the man, I too was forgotten. A black memory embraced me, and brought me to its darkness.
