Things I Have Written

Colored to Greyscale [Short Story]

They took him away - and there’s nothing I could do.

I stepped onto the front porch, feeling the warm summer breeze gently brush my shoulder length hair. Looking back, I saw my Dad’s car driving down the street. Outlined by the setting Florida sun. I turned and looked into the glass panels lining the doors, seeing my wavering reflection in the glass. I had a round, innocent face only a child could have. My brown hair fell around my face in a pixie cut. I pushed my glasses up my small dotted nose, letting my fingers brush over my light freckles that showed more with age. I brushed my hands on my black shirt and blue jeans, praying I didn’t drag any of my boxers fur into the house. Once I was satisfied I looked at the door, tightened my grip on my backpack, and knocked.

…

No answer.

“Uncle Ethan! It’s Nikole!” I shouted. I heard a bit of rustling inside and waited, chewing on the inside of my lip. Just as I was about to knock again, a tall man opened the door. I looked over him, he had pale skin that was dotted with freckles. His brown hair was neatly cut so that it swooped up and never touched his forehead. His brown eyes sparkled as he looked down at me and a smile spread across his face, creating dimples in his cheeks.

“Nikole!” He said, as he picked me up and hugged me. I smiled and wrapped my tiny arms around his broad shoulders.

“Uncle Ethan! I missed you.” I squeaked. Laughing, as he carried me into the house, kicking the door, closed behind him. His house was small, as most where in our small town of Jacksonville, Florida. His walls where every color of the rainbow, each one with a different drawing of my Uncles. He was an artist at heart but made his living doing house repairs, the mix of paint and sawdust was welcoming as he took me to the living room. There were no pictures, no books, no nothing. There was only a t.v. that lined the wall, an old brown couch against the back wall, and many cans of paint. I looked to my left and saw his kitchen. Each tile a different design by his sisters, brothers, nephews, and nieces. Ever girlfriend he ever had painted a tile. The walls were white, the only blank walls in the house. However, that was only to be sure that he didn’t eat paint chips on regular bases.

Ethan set me down on the couch and picked up one of his brushes, dripping fresh red paint. He took my hand and coated it then stuck it on the wall behind me. I looked up at all the handprints. Every time a family member or friend visited and interrupted his work, they had to put a handprint on the wall. There were over 50 handprints.

“Ethaaaaan, now I have to wash off the paint!” He laughed.

“Oh, the struggle of an artist.” I glared playfully and touched his cheek with my hand. He gasped, a very dramatic gasp.

“Nikole! What have you done!”

“Oh, the struggles of an uncle,” I mocked, as I ran to the guest bathroom. I washed my hands and watched as the clear water mixed with red. I smiled to myself and turned the water off, drying my hands on a nearby towel. I hummed, walking back to the living room and grabbing my camo backpack.

“I’m going to unpack, okay?” I said, looking down at my painting uncle, paint still on his face.

“Alright,” He said, not looking up form his work. “You know where it is.” I nodded and went down the hall, there were four doors, the first two a closet and the bathroom. The two at the end where the guest and master bedroom. I stepped into the guest room and flung my backpack on the bed, kicking my tennis-shoes off. I opened my backpack and pulled out a sketchbook, with my pencils and pens. I then grabbed The Inventions of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick, I was halfway through and determined to finish it before school started again. I pulled out a tooth and hair brush, then finished by grabbing my night clothes and painters smock. I quickly changed and ran out into the living room.
“Wo, wo, wo, what are you doing?” Uncle asked, setting his paintbrush down.