Colors (bxb) [DISCONTINUED]

still breathing

"Are you scared to death to live?"

🔵🔴⚫️⚪️🔘

The knocking intensifies — almost as if the person on the other side is displeased, almost as if the person on the other side is somehow aware of the emotional moment that just happened. Almost as if they're aware of the moment and they're terribly displeased — disgusted — by it.

Something in my stomach twists. For some reason, I do not see this morning ending very well for me.

Mrs. Reynolds detaches herself from her son, wiping her face free of tears. "I'm coming!" she calls out. Turning to me, she tilts her head in confusion. "Besides my husband, who's already here, I'm not expecting any company. Is that your mother, dear?"

My mother. Just the thought of her is enough to send a wave of panic throughout my body. If that is her, that would explain the angry knocking. What if she was listening to us through the door? What if she heard Justin come out to his parents? What if she heard Justin call me his boyfriend? No matter how I try to look at it, I can't imagine anything positive coming from any of those possibilities.

"I don't— I didn't call her this morning. If that is her, she's picking me up."

The words seem foreign, far away, as if they're not coming out of my mouth. Despite the wonderful reaction of Justin's mom, I don't feel too good. Maybe it's the fact that two more people know about my sexuality, and I'm just not used to having so many people be privy to my deepest insecurity. Maybe it's the fact that my mom could possibly be outside, and she could have possibly heard what was going on in here, and she could possibly be ready to disown me. Maybe it's the bursts of red that cloud my vision with each solid knock.

I don't know. Something in the air is off. Whatever it is, it's directly affecting my disposition in a very negative way.

Mrs. Reynolds rushes over to go answer the door, leaving the three males in the kitchen. I stare at Mr. Reynolds, who stares at his son as if he's seeing an entirely different person. He doesn't look angry, or sad, or anything of the sort. He just looks confused, almost lost. I turn to look at Justin, who seems to be pointedly looking everywhere but at his father. His eyes are red and his cheeks are tear-stained — but when he catches my gaze, his brown eyes instantly light up and a small smile slides onto his features.

There are no words said, but there doesn't need to be. Everything is alright. We're going to be alright.

"Kristopher!" Mrs. Reynolds calls out, her green voice flowing back into the kitchen. She walks in, a rather strained smile on her fair face. "Go pack your stuff, dear. Your mother is here to pick you up."

And then my mom steps inside the kitchen, her expression unamused and clearly unhappy. Her dark hair is tied into a messy bun, and her clothes are uncharacteristically wrinkled. It looks as if she came to get me as soon as she woke up. When her eyes meet mine, I try to smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.

She blinks. "Good morning, Kristopher. I called you this morning and you didn't answer."

Her words cut through the green in the air with a sharp red slash. Despite how apathetic she appears, I can tell that something is wrong. Something happened recently that has absolutely devastated her mood. I can already tell that she's not going to be very kind to me today.

I scratch the back of my head, shrugging a little. "I, um . . . I guess I just didn't hear the phone ring. I'm sorry."

"I told you to call me as soon as you woke up in the mornings."

"Yes, I know . . . I just forgot. Sorry."

It's not enough to appease her attitude, but it's all that I'm willing to give. Despite feeling particularly uneasy, there's a small part of me that wants to be a bit defiant. There's a small part of me that doesn't want to feel chained to my mother's wrists anymore, a small part of me that was awoken by Justin's coming out. Why is it that his parents are so . . . nice? Why can't my mom be as accepting? Why can't my sister be as kind? Why am I stuck with a family that'll hate me for being me?