Stained Glass Window

(Story contains physical violence, suicide or self harm, and mental health related topics.)

The sun penetrated the blue glass window. Shades of green sprawled across the gray carpet. Ever since he had been a kid, the sun had laid on the ground in the same way. The wound of light had become a routine and the boy found small comfort, and it’s never changing presence. He himself was a pale blue, he always had been. His mother, a warm, yellow, and his father, a passionate red. He almost never left his room. The color, blue, while unwelcomed by most, was a source of warmth and comfort for him. He found the reliability of the color easier than the effort that came with other colors. His father‘s red and Mother‘s yellow never mixed well with his blue. The evidence marked his skin with shades of green and purple. 

He sat on his bed, and his knees were pulled to his chest as he held onto the stability that came with the unmoving furniture and wound. That wound. He reached his hand out and traced its edge on the sheets ever so gently. His touch like a feather, almost reverent, on the light gray surface that muddled the color of the green wound. Underneath the door, a warm yellow glowed, trying to enter the room, but could not pass far enough to reach the boy. He couldn’t remember the last time his color reflected his parents. He wasn’t even sure it ever had. Sure, he had seen the pictures, the letters, the childish yellow, in his old doodles, but it was hard for him to believe. His mind wouldn’t let him. 

His life to him was a muddled mess, but no clear start or end. He was sure it was just lost in translation somewhere. He was used to that though, as a bilingual kid with parents that only spoke one language, most things were, and that was just the nature of his life. His room was his dwelling, apart from school and meals. His life at school wasn’t much different; like at home he was ignored, and when he was acknowledged, it was never for a good reason. He had a bright mind, but as a bird in his cage life, he could never truly sing. He was so close yet so far from his potential. He couldn’t help but think of how great he could be. His dreams were his connection to the yellow that created the green wound. That wound. The same wound that sprawled across his bedroom floor.

  The next day the wound was back, and he was still there. 

He had met someone. Today he sat in front of his desk, a notebook and pencil in his hands. A familiar yet foreign feeling. He sat for minutes unmoving. The pencil finally touched the paper and he wrote, and wrote, and wrote. A warm orange that began in his chest started to sing. Footsteps. The sounds echoed in the hallway. He stopped. He stood up, quickly putting down the notebook and pencil, and retreated to his bed. He dimmed his orange, the color now engulfed by his blue again. He sat where his bed met the wall. His unwavering gaze was set on the door. The orange that was seeping in was covered by shadow. The door opened. 

The next day, the green wound cast again. 

The boy laid in his bed. His skin tinted with green and purple once more. His stained cheeks held a memory. His hand tangled in his hair. The wound seemed as if it was reaching for him, but the nature of its reliability held it still, offering a minuscule comfort. He didn’t know how long he had laid there, but he didn’t want to move. The orange he tried so hard to hide away no longer needed to hide. He wasn’t even sure it was still there. He dreaded what other kids yearned for. The weekend for him wasn’t a vacation. The birds outside sang. He longed for the freedom they were born with. His door was open ever so slightly. There was no orange or yellow trying to seep in. He sat up slowly, and tentatively made his way to the door gently shutting it. The closed door served as a small comfort and protection. He dared not to lock the door. He stood there for a few moments. He listened. The silence was a consolation, and he went back to his bed. The notebook and pencil were ignored as the small, warm, glowing orange had dissipated. he wasn’t aware of the time as he sat, exhausted, but not sleeping. His body was sluggish and sore; his mind no longer dreaming. The green wound was a reminder and for once in his life he found himself disgusted by it. He stood up and shut his curtains. That wound. That wound that connected him to yellow, to his dreams, to his potential. 

Monday.

 It was quiet. The curtain is no longer shut. The green wound now, yellow and healed, but now the blue boy wouldn’t see it. His belongings cowered as strangers came and went. His things shoved in boxes. There weren’t many. His parents didn’t enter. His father’s red faded, and his mother’s yellow rained down her cheeks. The room was as cold as he. His dreams flew, sang, and soared with the birds. The yellow scar touched his floor with a grace and belonging that was inexplicable. He could get rest now. His body no longer tired and sore. They cleaned his room and locker. The students couldn’t sympathize. After all, how can you mourn someone you never knew? They sent gifts. They were generic, but what could he care? He couldn’t receive them. His parents went to court. They weren’t held liable for the damage they had done to him. Crocodile tears ran down their metallic cheeks. The purple on his skin were reminders that they claimed they took no part in. He no longer hated them, no longer hid marks behind hoodies, no longer dreaded the weekend. He was happy, he was orange and yellow, he danced on the rays of the warm sun. He painted the sky with vibrant shades. The yellow scar was no longer a green wound; it was a healed reminder. The notebook, his prize possession, was packed into a box. The letters inside, a reflection of his mind, would remain unread. He would be forgotten. He would be free.