Colour Island

Chapter One

My bed sheets are grey.

My ceiling is white.

My dresser is black.

The only three colours I can see are everywhere; I can't escape from them. And it's driving me insane.

When I started talking about insanity to my dad, he reassured me that I certainly wasn't succumbing to any signs. I didn't sleep for days on end, nor did I have violent outbursts of rage. But violence isn't really my thing anyway. Are there other signs of going insane?

I sink towards my laptop, shaking the mouse until the screen goes from black to grey, the loading symbol spinning in the centre.

Signs of insanity, I research. Unfortunately, my dad walks in before I can read any of the results.

"I told you, you're not going insane." He chuckles, shutting my laptop with a small clang. "It's just some conflicting emotions from our move."

"I can't see colours." Is my response. It's always been my response to pretty much anything. "Do you like these curtains?" I can't see colours. "Why don't you read something instead of being on your phone?" I can't see colours. Half the time it doesn't even make sense. It's just an automatic thing.

"I'm taking this away for now." He says, unplugging my computer and shoving it under his arm. "Go outside."

"I can't-"

"Enough." He snaps, which surprises me. Then he shakes his head and sighs. "Bree, I did not assist in your birth just to have you lie around all day. Go outside; half fun. There's a park not far down the road."

"Like I'm ever going to go there. Parks are for little kids."

"You're still only fifteen, Bree. That's little in my world."

"That's because you're old." I retaliate, slinking off to the bathroom to wash my face. On the way, I can't help but look at my reflection and wonder about my features. My hair just touches my shoulders, but what colour is it? My eyes are large and slightly lopsided, but what colour are they? Do I have heterochromia, that rare glitch where the eyes are two different colours? That'd be cool to have.

I turn the sink on and grab the cloth.

"You're taking too long!" Wails a voice from the other side of the door, followed by a knock. I groan and unlock the door, where my little brother Mikkel bursts through with a scowl on his face. "Why do girls always spend hours on end in the bathroom?"

"It's not just girls." I say. "As you grow up, your body changes."

"Ew, gross." He sticks his tongue out. "I'm still only eleven. Why do I have to learn about this junk?"

"I learned it at eleven." I shrug. Really, I'm just trying to get reaction out of him. I don't succeed.

"I'm going to make sure to escape health class in high school, then." He says with finality, rummaging through the cupboard until the sink. "Where's my rubber duck?"

"Why the heck do you need it now?"

"It's been missing for a day."

He's slightly autistic, and hates it when things go missing. It's like a pet peeve. Mine is when a person doesn't have a profile photo.

Does that count as insane?

"Well, good luck." I say to my brother, waving myself out of there before he starts interviewing me or something.

Dad is folding the laundry, humming to himself a tune I recognize but can't place. I think it's one of mum's songs. She used to write them a lot before she died. There's a whole collection of them down in the basement, unopened for two years.

The thought gives me a small burst of confidence to go down in that dark, suffocating place and look for the boxes that came in just a day ago. All of them labelled with neat sharpie writing; "Mommy's songs" with a little smiley face next to it. Dad hasn't opened them since she died, so they're covered in dust when I finally rip the tape off and open up the flaps.

I expected neatness. I expected the paper envelopes of song lyrics and music scores to be stacked up perfectly. I must've opened the wrong box, right? Nope. When I check the side, the writing is there, plain as day.

But half the envelopes are open, the papers ripped and scattered everywhere. It must've happened when they were on the truck. Sadness pangs inside me. Mum wouldn't have liked this. She'd do, "tut, tut, what a mess" like she always did if my or Mikkel's room was not clean.

Unconsciously, I find myself reaching into the box and pulling out the most beaten-looking song. The title has something to do with gold and orange. I put it back gently and wrap the box back up the way I found it. Somehow, rearranging the stuff feels... wrong. And I don't know why.