The Vivid Colors

It is almost pinching my eyes and everything feels dizzy at once. Eventually, it settles in the too-bright sunlight. The grains of sand feel cold between my fingers. Water of the ocean is touching my feet and running away like a child, trying to make me run after it. Something feels odd and wrong about this nostalgia overwhelming inside me; still I force my steps forward when suddenly it comes to my realization that I am tied with ropes tightened around my wrists and ankles. The other end of the ropes is far from my vision, as if they’re endless. However, I am not surprised at all, after all that I did, I knew it was coming.

Therefore, without trying, I lay back contentedly, setting my eyes on the cloudless sky wearing my darling color. Unfortunately, the color isn’t my beloved anymore, ever since I saw the 7 bluish-black marks on my back in the mirror.

Erstwhile, this sand feels like an ointment to it, diminishing the burning sensation of my cracked skin.

I see a penumbral figure approach and I could instantly tell that it was you. You are saying something I can’t really hear but I knew it was your catchphrase, you always said to me while tickling – ‘Your rare smile feels like a reward to me.’ But you come nearer and whisper something more- ‘...and I will take away every bit of it.’

You slowly sit me up; I was never more octophobic than now. Nevertheless, I was the one who taught you to paint, as elder sisters are trained to teach their younger sister about all the talents they be acquainted with. Hence, the blame is on me.

You paint your eighth masterpiece and I scream again- “I miss you, blue.”

I see you walk away and as these words come out of me, I wonder how many more masterpieces my battered canvas can contain. I know you won’t be harsh on me for long, nothing can be; because my last-and-most-cherished-comrade ‘death’ will always be the one I can fall back onto whenever any pain becomes too long.

*

I woke up at 6 in the morning today, with my nurse shrugging my shoulders when I was having one of the regular nightmares. Tracey was it? Anyways, she has to do this almost every day now, saving me from my numbered nightmares.

“It was Kate and Graciella again, wasn’t it?”

“No other event has overshadowed my life like this, I am guilty and god reminds me of that every day.”

“Being the patient of a disease like Alzheimer’s, it’s fascinating to know that you still remember such details of it. I have been there for you since you were eight; it’s thirty years already and three years since the unfortunate accident. You aren’t guilty. You should know that.”

“I was there at the beach with them, Tilly--”

“It’s Tracey.” She interrupted.

However, I went on. “Kate went to bring me some medicines, when I just sat there, peacefully, when I heard Grace screaming my name 8 times...she was right there, drowning in front of me, I ran to save her but as soon as her hands were out of sight, I collapsed and fainted. When I regained my consciousness, I had already forgotten all of it. The Police searched for 7 days and couldn’t find her, until one day she was finally discovered by some local, who found her washed up on the shore. I remember that day better than any other now, just a little too late.

I just hope that Kate forgives me for this; she hasn’t visited me in three years. If you ever talk to her, do say that I miss her. I can only imagine the pain and agony that I put her through; I don’t know what she must be thinking of me, being wherever she’s right now. I hope she does not hate me, I hope I could talk to her one last time, and tell her how sorry I am for taking away her ‘love’, and how I’d die for her to be the yellow to my blues.”

“You need sleep. Take rest. It’s not the right time for you to talk.” Tracey insisted.

“...I hope she does not hate me, I hope I could talk to her one last time, and tell her how sorry I am for taking away her ‘love’, and how I’d die for her to be the yellow to my blues.” I said, as Tracey was closing the door, she frowned and left. Maybe my stupid brain was repeating things again.

I am to myself now, the yellow clock reminds me of how once I thought that amidst all the colorful sceneries and disasters I ever carved on the canvases you gifted, I was sure of which color I would paint you in, yellow. No, not the bright yellow you find filled in the sun drawn between 2 mountains in a 5-year-old’s book, but the yellow at the edges of an old-old book, whose pages are almost torn, inside the dusty racks of your once favorite book collection.

The canvas is dry now and maybe I’ll put it on the topmost rack of my shelves. And when this spine will be bent enough to reach barely for the knob of stove in this cozy kitchen of mine, I’ll ask my grandchildren to climb up and get that part of you, dusty yet clear enough to erode memories from my repetitive-alzheimeric-diseased brain.

But again, I keep forgetting which color was my favorite. Was it Blue? Or was it Yellow that I thought to paint you in? It’s getting more difficult to remember little things now. So, perhaps it’s better to keep your canvas in the lowermost rack, because now I am not so sure about my grandchildren either.

***

She’s laying still, eyes closed for 15 months now, she hasn’t moved. It’s terrifying to see the liveliest person you know, sleeping in such silence. I regret avoiding her for 3 years. I lost my 5 year old daughter, but she treated me like a 5 year old for more than 2 decades. Tracey and Jenna took care of me my entire life, and now I have to see her like this while it’s already been an year since Tracey passed away, I wonder how will I break this news to Jen, but is she going to be awake ever again to know about this? My heart thumps and my blood runs still over the thought that perhaps I would never be able to listen to her again.

Regrets make you feel as empty as an abandoned prison, with screams haunting the bars like the ‘numbered’ deads. She wasn’t my culprit but I tagged her with a penance she did not even commit, and now I am wandering these vestibules of the same prison that I put her away in.

I pull my legs up and sink my head into the couch beside her bed for the 457th night, my eyes are heavy with sleep and tiredness, while all I can think of is about the guilt that I put her through; I don’t know what she must be thinking of me, being wherever she’s right now. I hope she does not hate me, I hope I could talk to her one last time, and tell her how sorry I am for withdrawing my all my love, and how I’d die to be the yellow to her blues.