Color-Gifted (Color-Gifted, #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

If you'd like to keep up-to-date with news of my journey to publication, you can always subscribe to my blog (you can find it on my profile) or follow me on Twitter, or just fan me here! And I'll be sure to let you know when I have news. In any case, thank you all for reading.

Vote if you like! Also, any comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated.

Enjoy!

_____________________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The smell of soup fills the air. All around me, tall white walls. There's a rip in one corner that Mommy hasn't seen, from all the times I push to see how far the walls will bend. If I try hard enough, I can squeeze through and test my legs some more.

First one hand, and then the other, through the tear. I look around; no one sees me. I squeeze my head through, then my tiny shoulders. I’ll make it!

The carpet is scratchy under my knees, but the kitchen tiles are close.

Here we are. Much better!

The chair legs are big, but they’re getting smaller every day. I grab onto them with my hands; they will help me up.

I’m so close!

I stand on my feet, unsteadily, my small hands still holding on to the dark chair. I look up; there it is! The soup, there on the stove, boiling away. Next to it, a big piece of wood with all this food on it. Carrots . . . onion . . . garlic . . . Those long green ones I don’t know what they are called.

And there he is! Chopping all those vegetables to little pieces with that big, shiny knife.

He still doesn’t see me. I’ll surprise him; show him how big I am. Show him what I can do.

I let go of the chair and let out a giggle. “Dada!” I teeter over to him quickly, quickly, so I won’t fall down.

A metallic clatter over my head . . . a sharp, loud moan . . . and then something drips on my arm as I wrap them around Dada’s legs, something bright and shiny and red . . .

I wake up with a start and immediately moan. My head is killing me; it feels like someone is hammering it from the inside out. But this does nothing to dull the realization. It doesn’t lessen the shock. The smell of soup is still sharp in my nose, and I remember.

I remember.

That wasn’t a dream. It’s a memory. Of my father.

And I still didn’t manage to see his face. God fucking damn it.

This blow takes less than a second to be delivered, a punch to the gut. Then I really see where I am. And I remember what happened. Talking to Myra in the woods; two men appearing out of nowhere; the short-lived struggle; screaming Evan’s name . . .

My heart breaks into a gallop as I take it all in. I am in what appears to be a storage room. Cardboard boxes are stacked high all around me, without any particular order or care. There are shelves to one side, filled with more boxes and what looks like glass jars; it’s too dark to discern much. Bundles of rope and fishing equipment are piled into one corner and a small boat hangs from the ceiling above. The wooden floor is covered with a thick layer of dust and the only source of light is the window to my left.

I try to move my arms, but they are tied to the arms of a wooden chair, positioned so I’m facing the door. Any thoughts of the dream are pushed aside as I try the same with my legs, but like my arms, they are bound and strapped. Outside, the scrape of a chair and lazy laughter reaches my ears. I freeze, trying to hear over the pounding in my head.