I Dream of Red

A new set of eyes would fix everything. A different pair of shoes could take him farther than the norm of a nearby coffee shop. A change of hands, fingers, and even his brain could work the pages of his half-empty notebook. “Nothing new,” he wrote on the top space before the vacant lines below. If words could spill from a cup, he’d been doing a horrible job at knocking the cup over. His head fizzed with nothing, and his nose cringed at the stench of cigarette smoke all around him. With a pencil on a blank page, his lips rolled against each other while the guys and gals smoked at their tables. They laughed, sang along to the jams of the shop’s radio, bopped their heads, and smiled with large teeth, but he sat in the middle of it all. Everyone seemed so happy, except him. But he knew that the whiffs of burning tobacco only glamoured the young and old, whose satisfaction was supposedly void in life. With every chance, his older brother used to try and peer pressure him into lighting his first cig, but, like a child whose goal was not to disappoint his mother, he never took the bait. Writing became his perfect getaway, but the pursuit of journalism pulled him deeper into a hole he’d never escape. He wrote beneath his first line, “Still no color.” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see color anymore. His vision scaled from black to white with gray in between, and nothing had any beauty. For him, a rainbow meant no rainbow because who on earth could see a colorless band of light? It ached his soul that even the sun played a blind role in his life these days.

Dark coffee, no cream. Alone at a cafe, but no real stimulant. The tip of his pencil touched the next line when a flash disturbed his periphery. His eyes widened when he looked up to see a woman at the counter taking her order. Her shoulders and legs were bare with the dress she had on, but it flowed just below her knees. Her shoes were wedged a few inches from the ground and they beamed a clean shine at the front. But, get this, her shoes and dress were red. Even her nails were a bright, glowing hue of red. Her shoulders rose up and down to the music and her head danced side to side. Her skin remained a shade of dark gray and her hair a black river down her back. He lifted his chair to stand, and before he could straighten himself, the woman turned to face him with the most angelic smile. It caught him off guard and he almost knocked his one-screw-shy table and empty coffee mug to the ground. She turned to the entrance door and walked out in a frolic manner, so he grabbed his notebook and pencil and set to find the girl.

She skipped past every store as he knocked a few people out of his way just to keep focus on her. Only, he lost her at the end of the sidewalk before the next one up ahead after the street. A glint of red. He snapped his head to the right; it was his ex’s hair salon. A flood of memories smacked him in the face unwantedly. He’d been there only two times, but to know that she might still go there haunted him. A few months before his breakup, his vision began to alter. She grew tired of him, his busy mind, his lonely past, his anxious habits, his snoring, and his unfulfilling kisses. Ever since they parted ways, he’s returned to his older self, where imposter syndrome wrecks him, and writing for himself feels like a waste of time. Unfortunately for him, The Routinely became a newspaper meant to repeat redundant stories and unoriginal hacks. Did the lady in red want him to remember his ex? He shook his head and laughed under his breath, unsure if the figments of his mind had finally twisted out of his control. Then it happened again. 

To the left, she waved at him from across the road. She gestured for him to come, so he took the beat of no cars as his free-way ticket to meet her. Unfortunately, she went running again. She skipped away like a child with feathered wings as he sped after her, keeping his notebook close to his chest. Now, she twirled through a market where bubbles floated aimlessly and delicious aromas clouded his senses. Her red remained his target until she left him to the street vendors. As usual, they sold fresh honeycomb, smoothies, fruits, tasty meats, bracelets, and random furnishings. All missing color. The market was a distraction from the actual mystery, he thought. Then he saw her sitting at Margret’s Fountain. That was the place he and his brother used to throw bunches of dirty pennies in, but every time they’d come back, they were gone. Despite this constant annoyance, whoever cleaned the fountain might’ve been doing them a favor. Their wishes were always stupid and childish as is. 

With her elbows at her knees and her chin on top of her fists, she watched him take a seat next to her. Her eyes were incredibly sweet. “You’re following me?” she asked with a telling smile.

He observed her dress and shoes and looked back up to her, “Who are you?” His brows most likely pressed against each other at the inquiry.

“I hate to combat your question, but I need to know why you followed.”

He thought back to the cafe, “When you came into the shop earlier, you didn’t stay for your order. And… I can’t help but feel incredulous towards you and your attire.”

“Everyone’s got on color. Even you,” she eyed his favorite suit. It was meant to be brown forever, except now it was only gray with black stripes. “I guess brown is your color as mine is to red.”

“I’m dreaming,” he sighed gruelingly. His dreams of late had been solely monochrome, so the sight of a random red couldn’t be more thrilling or unrealistic. He tried to restrain the temptation to ask if she could pinch him. If real, asking for a pinch would’ve made him appear foolish, but a fool like him needed all the assurance he could get. So, “Could you pinch me?”

“No, Silly,” a playful tone nicked her voice, “Hand me your notebook.” He hesitated but agreed to the command nonetheless. She skimmed through the thin pages, her eyes shifting faster than light could process. Disappointment lined her visage, but she didn’t need to say anything for him to understand why. “These aren’t what I expected.”

“I think I’m losing it,” his face burned from the hot tears welling up from within. And similar to a weak and faulty pane of glass, the tears began to break through. He could bet the red of her dress reflected the one in his weary eyes. “I’ve longed to quit the job. They only ever need me to report on the dark ends of society, and I’m exhausted. For once, I just want to lay down without the voices in my head.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He covered his mouth as tears sank through the cracks, “I've only ever journaled for one war and it’s damaged me so much that I can’t even see right. I can’t even write from my heart like I used to because it’s just not the same up here anymore,” he motioned to his head.

“You’re in need of light. Your heart isn’t giving you the words that you need, so you need to look elsewhere if you want to see things better.” She extended a hand and he latched on, careless enough to venture wherever she pleased.

His heart thumped beneath his chest for the first time in months. She might’ve been his guardian angel or a soulmate waiting for him all this time, he wondered. She smelled of fresh air, nature, and heaven. Though painted in black and white, the tall city buildings around them reminded him of his first job as a secretary. He used to compliment his coworkers' fancy blouses and hang on to every piece of social interaction for the day. When he quit to become a journalist, it didn’t even need to take a lonely relationship for colors to start fading. If he wanted to be honest with himself, he thought a relationship would light up his world again, but it only did the opposite.

“Close your eyes,” she said. He closed them and kept letting her pull him until she said to open them again.

Dreams were supposed to be quite merry. The bridge between a dream and a nightmare could be as thin as a stick and from the looks of it, they were breaking that bridge rather quickly.

“Why are we here?” He let go of her, his eyes wider than an owl’s. Sharp grass pricked his ankles, shadows of high bark surrounded the open space, and gravestones littered the soil. His stance became brittle as he shivered at the small gravestone right before him. His brother’s.

“Your head is stuck here and no one seems to comprehend or even care about that. But I do.”

“How do you know about that?”

She smiled from a compassionate place, “You come here every night to torment yourself. I hear it when you cry, and I see it when you curse yourself for something you have no control over. I’m here to tell you that freedom is a field away.”

“A field away… I’m trapped in the one that my brother is buried in for the rest of my life. I understand that you’re trying to make me feel better, but I’m past the need for a savior.” He didn’t want to believe that and he hated himself for saying it. He wiped away more tears from his eyes and kneeled on the ground, closing the space between him and his brother’s gravestone. He picked up the flower that decorated his bare stone and fiddled with the stem, twirling it ‘round and ‘round. He’d forgotten the name of it, but it smelled like fresh air, nature, and heaven. What color was it again? It only looked dark gray now.

“Instead of writing about the world’s blacks, grays, and whites, you should seek the color on the bright ends of society. Bring awareness to the good that people can bring into life if they spend more time caring. Open their eyes and make them see what you want to believe in.”

“I believe in community, family, justice, and hope. Those are things that are hard to find out here.”

She laughed out loud without denying his statement, “Remember me when you find the lovely people of this world. As a writer and journalist, make it your mission to seek those gems. Find out why they are the way that they are and spread the great news. As for me, I was created by God to give you a glimpse into that paradise.”

“Where would I even start?” He gently placed the flower back down, giving it one last kiss. “I guess I–.”

He paused at the sight. She disappeared. He kneeled within a field of flowers, multiples of the same kind as the one on the gravestone. But the graves were gone and there were no more trees. He stood and saw that the field stretched for miles, interrupted by a small lake in the distance. Blue. The lake was blue. Blue. The sky was blue with white, fair clouds. Yellow. The sun shined on him with its golden rays of warmth. Green. The wispy grass was green and soft like strands of hair. And finally, red. The flowers were red, beautiful, and vibrant, just like the delightful woman. They were so beautiful that he could cry, and he did. As his eyes traced the field, the name came to him, a whisper in the wind without question, and it all made sense. Poppy. Though the unique flower symbolized paying homage to lost soldiers, it also meant moving forward in life with peace. He’d been stuck in the death aspect of remembrance rather than the hopeful part of it. His restored vision meant an end to wishful thinking and possibly the beginning of seeking beauty in life. He never got the chance to stand in a field as beautiful as this one before. His brother would've loved it.

He opened his notebook and noticed the previous pages of work had been erased. Rather than picking up his pencil again, he picked off a poppy and placed it behind the first page. Every time he’d open it again, the lady in red would serve as a reminder to keep an attentive eye on miracles.