Colorless

Chapter 2

                                                  

     The next morning was completely normal. I got up, my head pounding like usual. I slipped on some black jeans and a grey t-shirt. I grabbed my school bag and headed out.

    Being 17 and a senior in high school you would think I would be driving myself to school, but that's not how it worked for me. The law said that people like me aren't to be trusted driving by ourselves. Legally,my mom had to drive me to everywhere until I was 18.

     Surprisingly, I dreaded the day I turned the big one eight (which was the last day of my senior year).  Everyone like me dreaded the day they turned 18. Once a colorless person becomes a legal adult, they're sent to a home to live with other colorless folks. Unless, miraculously they become "healed" before then, which rarely ever happened.

    When I was little, I used to imagine meeting a boy and being healed by true love, but every colorless girl knows that true love does not exist. "Love is for normal people, Kelly." my mom used to tell me. I believed her.

    I got to school and emptied out my bag for the daily inspector. They checked everyone's bags for anything that could be used as a weapon or for self destruction. If you couldn't already tell, my school was only for the colorless. We had the same classes as normal people like math, science, social studies and English, but there were also several therapeutic classes.

    I never understood why they still offered those classes. I mean, sure there had been healed students at my school before every now and then, but most of the time they would just wake up one day and start to see color.

    I personally didn't think the classes helped. I believed that if you were meant to be healed it would just happen, but to me it wasn't worth trying.

    I preferred to just drink and drink so I didn't have to feel at all. It was easier that way. I was seen as one of the "helpless" ones from a young age. I was told that healing would never be an option for me, and I had accepted that up until the previous night. I had figured it was just a drunken dream, but I saw it as a spark of hope. Which was an emotion I hadn't felt for a long, long time.

    As I waited for class to start, I pulled out my sketchbook and shut my eyes. I pictured the colorful boy as distinctly as I could. I kept my eyes closed as I gave myself the familiar feeling of touching my pencil to a piece of paper. I had decided that by keeping my eyes shut it would make it easier to create how I was feeling on paper.

    I had learned over the years that drawing with your mind is easier than drawing with your eyes. People perceived me to be (even more) crazy when they saw me sitting with my eyes closed, as my left hand was working its' magic.

    Most of the time the things i drew consisted of emotions. You see, I was trying to take things that were not physically visible, and bring them to life. Even though my drawings were usually of anger, loneliness or desolation, none the less they were still the only sovereignty I had.

    When the school bell rang I shut my sketch book and opened my eyes, deciding to examine my production later.

   

   It had been a long day of unwillingly interacting with living souls and pretending to care. Alas, I had completed my 3,925th day of school and was left with only 29 more. I was petrified.

    Through out the following four weeks each senior was going to be paired with a normal person who was to try and connect with us and be our "friend". I had recently googled the definition of a friend, (a person whom one knows and whom one has a bond of mutual affection) and considering I had never felt "affection", I came to the conclusion that I had never had a friend.

    So, this final school project was doomed for failure. Yet us seniors proceeded to go along with it anyways. We were told it could be our last chance to be healed. It was a ridiculous assumption, but not impossible.

    Later that evening, after eating a half a slice of pepperoni pizza and discussing my "eventful" day of school with my mother, I went out for my evening jog.

     No, I did not take daily jogs because I was some exercise freak or weight over-thinker, or even for the hell of it. I jogged every day after dinner to some near by playground and back because my so genius therapist suggested it would help.

    All of these hopeful healing mechanisms annoyed the shit out of me, but I did them anyways. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Drink more?

    When I got to the park I breathlessly sat down on a bench and pulled out my sketchbook. I flipped to the page I had created earlier that day. I was about to shut my eyes, when someone spoke from behind me.

"That's a really neat drawing." an obviously normal girl said, "What is it?"

   Slightly startled and unaware of what to say, I looked down at the piece of paper. It appeared to be a small flower growing out of an empty wasteland.

"I'm not sure." I managed to say,

"I think it's cool. It's like this empty, dead, post apocalyptic-like area, and it looks so helpless. But then, you see this tiny flower beginning to sprout. It's like a sign of life in a world full of death."

    I stared more intensely at the drawing, then looked over to the girl. She was smiling at me, then she looked back at the picture in awe. I relocated my eyes back to the picture as well.

"Yeah." I whispered, "It's hope." 

Hey guys! First, I want to thank everyone who left positive feedback on the previous chapter. It's the best feeling in the world when someone compliments your writing. I've decided I'm going to dedicate each chapter to someone who's comment really stuck out to me from the previous chapter! I hope you're enjoying the story, the next one will be up asap! If you have any questions, please feel free to ask!

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