Rumblings of a Human

Invisible Colours

Some of the worst experiences can be caused by the people who seem the nicest. Their true colours tucked neatly away, they exude a certain genuine, charming quality that has even the most reserved person throwing caution to the wind. Their motives stem from a hidden colour no one sees until it is too late. My naïve mind could never comprehend these types of people until the day I met Michael Hansen.

I met him after a wedding ceremony. Boredom compelled me to approach the boy who had had the intelligence to bring a football. Michael's personality was a warm, earthy brown that matched his eyes. He was funny, good-looking and friendly. Everyone adored him. He reflected exactly the qualities I needed to feel comfortable and I was completely flattered by his attention.

He managed to get me alone after dinner, beneath the stars. As we gazed at them, his hand suddenly engulfed mine. My heart stopped. My brain began functioning in short sentences as I tried to work out what was happening. After years of wistful reading of romance novels, I was finally getting a taste of what a boy's interest felt like. That night I had my first kiss.

For a month after that, I chatted to him on social networking sites. The more I did so, the more confused I got. The warm, earthy brown had receded and in its place was a dirty, muddy colour that hung on my shoulders and pressed at a lump in the back of my throat. He cheapened the experience, questioning how much further I would have gone and I cheapened myself, lying to try to appear cool. After further comments and a continued failure on my part to reconcile the crude, insensitive boy to the charming boy of my memories, I ended all communications with him.

I realised that every word, every gesture had been calculated. When he hugged me and I felt his rapid heartbeat against me, it was partially because of the excitement of the success of his plans and not because of the infatuation of a teenage boy. The hesitation in his eyes when I told him this would be my first kiss was the result of a short-lived moral crisis and not a sign of sensitivity to my feelings. He had fooled me. He had fooled everyone. I had willingly donated a significant experience in my life to the boy everyone spoke so highly about and he had carelessly added it to his collection.

Yet I probably should be grateful for what he taught me. Some of the ugliest experiences are caused by the people who seem the nicest. Undeniably, it is the colour no one sees in a person that is utterly unforgettable and entirely dangerous.