Hues of Blue

Prologue

"The kid was traumatized."

A groan and a snort were followed by a folding chair crashing against the wall. Someone had kicked it across the room. Law of Inertia, my science teacher would probably give me a star for paying attention.

"We're not getting anything useful or logical out of her," Kurt spat.

"For Pete's sake, Kurt, did you have to do that?" Ron, the private eye, snapped. He might look like an old, dozing tortoise, but that turtle slaps like a bitch.

A cop walked in with a steaming styrofoam cup of coffee. I could almost taste the phlegm floating in that concoction. I scrunched my nose in disgust and looked away.

In front of me, an abstract spill of black coffee stained the metal-topped table, reminiscent of my first canvas—a splatter of dead rose. I found it charming; others said it was disturbing. It complemented the brown crust on the cuffs and the bright red puddle below my wrists. They were too tight.

If only their weary gazes could filter out the hatred and disappointment. Maybe then they could fool me into thinking they cared like my parents did. But they also had no sympathy for me. I didn't expect them to.

I already told them I was good for nothing.

The words hovered in bright capital letters against the blinding LED lights. My head filled with harsh white light, obliterating the image behind it. Was it a memory or a dream? They asked me the same questions again and again.

They wanted to know what happened before the explosion. Too bad the only survivor couldn't give them the proper details. Me, the useless witness who couldn't get anything right. Even a simple testimony was too complicated for me.

A mess.

A disappointment.

An excess.

The classic predetermined titles our parents give us.

Or is it just me? No matter, it's funny how they would tell us how to live. Feeding us false confidence while chaining us to outdated gender roles with their vacant minds. All the while, they pat themselves on the back for deceiving us into thinking we're making progress under their thumb.

All of this, and for what?

To show virtue and affection?

Questions flooded my head, making my hands shake. I balled them into fists. Cold as ice. Soon, I'd drown, and no one on the outside would notice.

A simple and silent death.

What a pathetic way to say goodbye.