The Colour of Regret

Content Warning: This story contains psychological themes and distressing imagery.

I look at the lilies placed on the passenger side of my car. I’ve always loved flowers, just not the kind you buy at the shop. Sure, they look good - but they’re already dead; they just don’t know it yet. Usually, I wouldn’t buy them out of principal. Today feels different, though. I had to do something to show remorse. To show how sorry I am.

I was heading back from an art exhibition when my mother called to say Mr Derbyshire had been found dead in his home. The news stripped something away from me. Like ripping off a plaster to reveal a puss-filled wound festering beneath. I didn’t realise how much guilt I’d been holding onto all this time - until I heard the news. My silence helped ruin that mans life.

I found that I drove past my turn-off in a daze and just kept driving. Memories of that time playing over in my mind. Waves lapping over me like an ocean of guilt.

I often thought about how I’d one day go back and make amends. I’d apologise and make things right. I guess there was just always something in the way. You know how it is with these things: I’m too busy all the time, maybe in a few weeks or months when things quieten down. Or, he probably won’t even remember me, and if he does, he certainly won’t forgive me. Or, what would I even say? I’d just look a fool.

Suppose I just thought I had time. It seems Mr Derbyshire had other plans, however. My chance to say sorry is gone. So, flowers is the best I can do. A feeble attempt at redemption, but an attempt nonetheless. The same silence that ruined his life was the same silence that stopped me from making things right.

It took me a while in my trance-like state to realise I had drove myself to the path that lead to his home. I sat at the bottom of that drive, headlamps illuminating the long pine trees that lined it, creating a tunnel of light. In my rear-view mirror, the sky was slowly starting to turn orange and pink as the world woke up. How long have I been driving?

I wind the windows down - partly to let fresh air in because I’m so tired and partly to let the smell of my half eaten Big Mac out. The smell of the surrounding farms and woodland is refreshing. The pine-sap and wet earth bring back more memories of that time. Of games in the woods with friends. Of how Mr Derbyshire and his wife would often give us ice-cream and drinks in the summer. How Mr Derbyshire would sometimes build a den in the forest when it was raining.

The memories, just like the flowers on my passenger seat, inevitably turn sour. I remember her. I remember how we ruined the life of this wonderful man and woman. And, after everything he did for us; for me. I wouldn’t be the artist I am today if it wasn’t for him teaching me. He was a very talented artist, well respected. Until we showed up.

Years worth of sadness, guilt and anger all burst from their hiding places deep inside of me in a unified attack and I cry. I bang against the steering wheel of my car repeatedly, causing the the horn to sound and disturbing a few nearby birds. My hand feels sore, but I carry on. This pain is only a fraction of the damage I helped cause.

The sun has broken the horizon now. It’s warm light tracing up the path ahead, revealing the cottage that sits proudly against the backdrop of hills and forest. I drive slowly up, being drawn in like a moth to light.

The once beautiful gardens surrounding the house are now all dead. The grass overgrown and filled with weeds and rubbish. The skeletons of once lush plants stick their angry limbs in all directions. Plant pots are strewn about empty and cracked. The once vibrant ivy that lay sprawled across the front of the house now gone, leaving behind what looks like dirty veins, spreading in all directions. There’s a board covering one of the bottom windows and a netted curtain gentle flaps out of a hole in an upstairs window.

Is this how he was living? Shame rises up in me once again. I was responsible for this! If I had told the truth, this place would still be beautiful.

Grabbing the flowers, I get out of the car. My legs are unsteady from sitting for so long, so I take a moment to work the feeling back into them. The lilies look even more pathetic now I look around the place. Worthless and brittle. Destined to become a part of the death that surround this place. Another stain on the memory of it.

I walk up to front-door and place the flowers on the door step, but I notice the door is slightly ajar. Perhaps there’s a family member inside? I give it a gentle push further open and it squeals as though in pain. I peer in to the gloomy hallway.

“Hello?” I shout, my voice swallowed in the dusty haze. No response.

A sudden urge to go inside overwhelms me. I know I should probably turn and leave - but my wary legs have other plans.

The dust and debris under my feet crunches like snow as I step through the doorway. It’s dark, despite the morning sun. Almost like the sunlight itself wants nothing to do with this place. It smells of death and decay. I find a light switch and, to my surprise, it works. The light barely pushes the darkness back - dust particles fly across my vision, angry at being disturbed.

As my eyes adjust, I’m deeply disturbed by the state of the place. The once gleaming floral wallpaper, now looks as dead as the plants outside, parts of it stripped from the wall completely, other parts hang limp in a desperate attempt to cling on. Old pictures and paintings have been spray-painted over by vandals, others lay on the floor ripped, shattered, broken. There are empty beer bottles and glass everywhere.

I turn to leave, a cold fear has been slowly creeping up on me and I feel a need to get out. But, as I turn, I notice other footprints in the dust and I hear a noise from the living room area. Maybe it’s a relative and they didn’t hear me the first time?

“Hello - is anybody there?” I call. No response again.

I tentatively make my way to the living room, following the dust-prints. I stare in shock at what they lead to.

It’s an oil painting of the cottage in all its glory. Mr Derbyshire’s signature sprawled in the bottom corner. It’s exquisite. The lighting, the brush-strokes, the colour, the composition, the mood. It feels like the painting is alive - a stark contrast to the murk that surrounds it. I marvel at all the tiny details, being drawn ever further in. A sudden thought occurs to me: Why has this remained untouched, while everything else here is decaying?

Perhaps I can make amends to Mr Derbyshire by preserving his greatest work. I try to take it down, but it’s stuck fast. I can’t even get any purchase to look behind and see how it's connected. I take a step back and can’t help but gaze in wonder again.

I jump as my phone starts ringing. The sound breaks me from my dreamlike state and I fumble it out of my pocket, eager to answer quickly so I don’t disturb the eerie silence. It’s my mother.

“Hi, Mum. Everything okay?”

“Hey, love. I was phoning to see if you’re okay? You said you’d call over this morning to help dad move some furniture.”

Shit - forgot about that.

“Sorry Mum, I drove down to Mr Derbyshire’s house to pay my respects.” Silence.

“Mr Derbyshire? Bit late for paying your respects, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“He died years ago. I thought I told you?”

Fear grabs my heart and begins squeezing in a death grip.

“You phoned me late last-night and told me he’d been found dead!”

“Honey, I was asleep by 8pm last-night. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve got to go.”

I hang the phone up. I take one last glance at the painting and my heart stops. There is someone peering out of the upstairs window. Someone not there previously.

I turn to run, and in my haste, I kick a brick laying on the floor and go tumbling. The corner of the solid oak coffee table rushes up to meet me. And I lose consciousness.

*

A slither of light burns my eyes as I begin to open them. Pain pulses in my skull from the impact. I reach up to feel a huge lump and thank the Lord that I’m not bleeding. I struggle to sit up, feeling dizzy and disorientated.

“Is anybody here?” I say, but get no response, again.

While my eyes are still adjusting, I notice the smells. The smell of oil paint, wood, canvas and art supplies. The smell of lavender, rosemary and thyme that Mrs Derbyshire had underneath the windowsills of the cottage. It smells like childhood.

Once my eyes have finally adjusted. I take in my surroundings with amazement. The house looks exactly like it used to - the death and decay are gone. Still unsteady, I sit on the old leather armchair Mrs Derbyshire used to use for knitting. I’m rubbing my temples as I observe the room. Everything is exactly how I remember it. Solid book shelves line the walls with all kinds of weird and wonderful books. There are paintings everywhere. All different shapes and sizes and colours. The brick fireplace crackles away as logs burn and give off a warm glow.

What the hell is going on? Am I dreaming right now?

The fireplace catches my eye. There’s something not quote right. Terror seizes me. The embers flicking up from the fire look like orange brush strokes that quickly fade away. The flames themselves look like a million invisible brushes are slashing away at a canvas with red and orange and yellow paint. I look to the rest of the room and notice it’s the same - everywhere. Everything looks painted. Everything a brush stroke. Surfaces with an oily sheen glistening in the painted orange light. I trace my finger along one of the strokes on the leather chair. It comes away with brown paint on it.

I quickly stand, panting. I try to wake myself up from this nightmare - but, deep down, I know I’m not dreaming.

I need to leave. Now!

I head to the exit. Grabbing the heavy brass door handle. I can feel the tiny grooves in the paint from the brush strokes. I pull and it melts in my hand. Cold browns and greys cake my hand in a thick sludge. A messy splat of paint sits where the door handle used to be. Panicking, I stick my fingers in the letter box and pull and more paint splatters on me. Going from solid to liquid as soon as I apply pressure.

I run to a window and draw the curtains back, the feeling alien in my hands. I try to look out of the window but it just has reflections painted on it. The illusion of a window. I turn and grab a lamp off the table next to the leather chair and throw it, with all my strength. It gets swallowed by the window, the colours mixing before it returns to a bluish black, ripples gently radiate out from the impact.

Turning to head to the back door I stop dead in the hallway. There’s a painting of her - Tammy. My partner in crime. The one who started all this. My first serious girlfriend. She looks menacing in the painting. I slowly walk to the next painting. This one shows me sitting at an easel with Mr Derbyshire as Tammy sits looking bored. I know where this is heading. The waves of shame and guilt now tsunamis.

I walk down the row of paintings, each one showing a detailed painting of the past. I don’t need to look, but I do. How Mr Derbyshire was giving me a painting lesson one day while Tammy sat bored. How she asked to use the toilet but went and stole a sapphire ring that belonged to Mrs Derbyshire’s grandmother. How Mr Derbyshire confronted us and said he was going to the police. How he grabbed Tammy’s wrist when she started to get aggressive. How she went to the police first and accused him of trying to sexually assault her. How he got arrested. How he lost his job. How the stress caused Mrs Derbyshire to suffer a heart attack which later lead to a stroke. How local teenagers terrorised them for years after.

How I stayed quiet. Like a coward. The last painting in the row - I deserve. It’s of me with my with eyes and mouth sewn shut. I begin crying again.

“I’m so so so sorry! I should have spoken up. I should have done something.”

I hear a woman laughing. I look to the stairs and feel that urge to walk up them, despite every fibre in my body telling me not to. Upstairs, I stop and wonder what direction the sound came from. I don’t need to wonder for long as the paintings on the walls all show crimson arrows, wet and dripping. I don’t know if it’s blood or paint. My breath heavy and body shaking, I slowly come to the master bedroom and open the painted door.

Upon entering I am revolted by what I find. Laying on the bed, in an eternal scream, lay Tammy. I haven’t seen her for years - but this is unmistakably her. The real Tammy. There’s thick black paint dried and crusted coming out of her orifices. The blue sapphire ring held in her outstretched hand.

I collapse to the floor, back against the wall, sobbing. Not for Tammy, not for myself. For Mr and Mrs Derbyshire.

I’m startled as the sapphire falls from Tammy’s hand as she melts into the bed. I grab it without thinking and stand back up backing into the wall. She vanishes, a red stain where she laid.

I feel a breath slither across my ear and let out a scream as I recoil, landing on the bed. I turn to find a painting of Mrs Derbyshire, deformed and wild. She begins crawling out, paint dripping from her skeletal arms. I hear her cackling as I run from the room.

I sprint to another room. The paintings in the hallway now whirring and slithering as things begin to ooze out of them. I slam the door behind me, grab a paperweight from a desk and head to the window, praying it will work this time. I draw the curtain back and stop in disbelief as I look out.

Outside, I see myself in the decaying old living room where I banged my head. I see myself jump as my phone rings. I see the fear in my eyes. I see myself look directly at me before turning to run. I see myself fall and hit my head.

I hear the noises coming closer; of unseen nightmares dripping their way towards me. I turn slowly as tears burn down my cheeks. The door opens. A painted Mrs Derbyshire stands, eyes filled with fury and hate. Black painted shadows drip and cackle behind her like a thousand children laughing manically.

I drop to my knees. Mrs Derbyshire was a kind, caring woman. Is this what my lack of action done to them? I’m saying how sorry I am in-between sobs now as the drips come slowly closer. I see her blue slippers as she stops in-front of me. The blue reminds me of the sapphire that I’m still holding. I look up into her eyes and offer her the sapphire back.

“Please believe me, I truly am sorry, Mr and Mrs Derbyshire.” I whisper.

I know my time has come, but at least I finally get to apologise. I close my eyes as I drown in paint. Just before the paint takes me, I hear my own voice from downstairs -

“Is anybody here?”