Chapter 1: Colorful Voices

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“Will you stop changing the channel already! Watch one goddamn channel, is it that hard?!”

The voice was my mom yelling at me after she slams the door that connects the kitchen from the living room. Her voice was dark blue with smudges of light blue. Dark blue meant despair and the light blue meant inner pain. After that, I noticed the bottle of wine on her hand. From the outline the light makes of the bottle, it was almost empty.

Almost everyday, she would drink at noon. She didn’t have a job. The man of the household did all the work. My mom lost her job a couple of months after my brother died. And soon, my dad came home later and later. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even come home.

She went back into the kitchen, but didn’t close the door. There were a few noises of bottles beating each other, and then a loud thud that came from the table being hit by the new bottle. She started crying pathetically in the kitchen while the curtains were closed. It made it look darker than it should be, darker than what it should be.

Her weeping were especially loud days after the death anniversary of my brother. The streets were still dripping from the rain yesterday. The rain lasted for the whole day that day. Some say its because of the radical climate change, some say it's God’s way of saying that we need to clean up our act. Although the people saying the last one are slowly dying out over the decades.

I say rain is rain.

Would I say it’s because of the my brother’s death that the Earth is weeping? No. It’s actually amusing. There’s always something in us that makes us always want to blame something, or look for a logical explanation.

A broadcast earlier tried to explain what was going on in the mind of a criminal. The criminal in question brutally raped and killed his victim with a jackhammer. The broadcast tried to explain the killer’s motives, what he did, why he did it, why he chose that certain girl. All of it was bullshit from what I seen.

A couple of weeks before this broadcast, the killer appeared in court. He managed to sneak in some words into the jury. His voice came off as gray with lines of dark purplish red. Most documentaries I’ve seen of sociopaths have almost the same colours when they speak. Basically, those mix of colours means apathy. They do not care at all who they victimize, rape, kill, or any atrocious acts they commit against a person.

Sociopaths are sociopaths for a reason. They lack empathy.

So why is it people always try to come up with a rationalization of their behaviour? It is indeed true that it’s hard to understand a sociopath. Not being one is the first step to try and not understand what they’re thinking. Of course, most, if not all, don’t get this. They are what they are. There’s no need to even think about what’s happening inside their minds.

My mom understood this perfectly. Blaming anyone for my brother’s death won’t really bring him back from the dead. However, hidden intentions in her colours creep up now and then when she’s drunk.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

At this point, the mom whom I used to admire was now crying so loud that I couldn’t concentrate on my thoughts. The darkest of the blue filled the whole house. The colour made me feel nauseous, so I decided to head out to a nearby park to wait it out.

It actually took me several months to learn what most of the colour means. At first, I was confused about the colours. But then I realized they actually meant something.

“I love you, bye” The lady put her phone back in her purse. The jittering light purple in her voice signifies the lie of her relationship with whoever was on the other end of the line. Her phone rang again, she immediately picked it up.

“Hey, the same hotel is it?” the colour of her voice this time was a vivid pink. The colour floated upwards with excitement. This vivid pink was the colour of lust. Her tone suggests that she’s not emotionally invested in whoever was on the line this time.

Now, I can clearly see her situation. The jittering in the light purple was caused by the dissonance in her mind. The jittering could also be interpreted as a lie. In this case, it was dissonance.

The first phone call was most likely her husband. That fact is easy from wedding ring she has in her left hand—the same hand she uses to answer her phone. From the way she dresses, she would be around late 20s or early 30s. No middle aged woman would dress that provocatively

I turned my attention away from her. I’m no marriage counselor, there was no point in getting involved.

Walking for several more minutes, I sat down on a bench. A couple walked past me as I sat down the bench. This time, it was the man.

“Aw c'mon, you know I don’t mean it.”

The man kept spewing out colours of solid jittering light purple. Only this time, they were definitely lies. Just as I thought this, I heard a loud slap that came from their direction. The woman beside him had slapped him so hard, he fell to the ground. Traces of light reflected off her face, then fell down. She wiped her tears off of her eyes before getting on the bus that had just arrived.

I admired her for her perfect timing of when the bus would come.

I would pass time like this, examining the stories of the people around me. For several hours at a time, I do this whenever I couldn’t stand my own mom’s grief. The juiciest stories would be like the last one, where it actually causes a commotion.

But this time, I felt tired.

.

.

.

I tried staying awake. It wouldn’t be a good idea to sleep in a place like this. The neighbourhood was good, but that doesn’t mean I should sleep on the bench. Still, I couldn’t get rid of the drowsiness, and my eyes soon shut themselves without my permission.

***

“...Uuuu... sniff… Uuuuu”

I heard the sound of crying beside me. I didn’t open my eyes just yet to see who it was. Not that it matters, I wouldn’t know who they were unless they’ve introduced themselves to me with their own voice.

“Why are you crying” My eyes were still closed while I let out a low groan. It was enough to catch her attention.

“Uuuu… my cat… just died.” She stumbled on her words. Inhaling rapidly and then letting out more moans of grief. This was when I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes to the colours of white beautifully dancing.

It was my first encounter with this colour. At that time, I knew that white definitely symbolized purity.

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I think I’ll keep chapters short for this series since this is a side project.

Thanks for reading. Comment, edit, proofreading are all welcome!