Through the Glass Door

For 75 years of Carson's existence, never had he believed that such a thing as "colors" exist. He had read about it once of course, when his mama still used to tie his shoes. It was a book called "The Rainbow of Myth." For years, the idea about a multicolored arc across the horizon did nothing but dissipated Carson's faint hope about a scintillating world. He sat beside the door of his dingy cabin, his vision muddled from his sleep. His spectacle clouded by the morning mist. The cardigan stitched by his very own wife, Blessinda, rest her soul, hung loosely on his wrinkled waist. The plains this morning looked nothing but paler than the day it preceded. Dark granite dwellings scattered like jagged teeth while humans continued with their usual routines. It was too gloomy for a morning, Carson thought as he gazed at the wagons running along the misty street. The air was cold against Carson's face, and it carried with it a faint scent of wood and smoke. Carson breathed, he allowed the faint scent of burnt wood to enter his nostrils. It reminded him of warmth and comfort he once felt when he was with his wife and with his children. Carson pulled his pale handkerchief from his faded cardigan. He lifted his spectacle over his forehead and wiped the wetness of his eyes. It was then when Carson put back his spectacle when a folded parchment appeared on his lap. Carson blinked, he was certain that he did not carry with him a parchment. He looked around him befuddled. When he finally decided that no one was around him but the large oak trees, and the dried leaves flowing across the dark cobbles, he lifted the parchment and opened it with his wrinkled fingers. He peered behind his spectacle. There was nothing, it was blank. Carson gasped his hands shaking as letters soon began to appear addressing his name. It read:

Dear Carson West, Your first and last adventure awaits...

Street Misery, B14.

The paper on Carson's hand began to dissolve into a glowing smoke. He stared at it open-mouthed until it drifted and disappeared behind the rustling oak trees. Carson felt his heart thudded. The warmth he felt a while ago evaporated into the misty air. He tucked his hands under his shoulders his teeth chattering from the cold. Adventure, he thought. Who was he to deny a blessing on his last days? He proceeded to the door of his dingy cabin, his knees trembling his hand shaking as he walked leaning on his cane. "Adventure," he muttered, a small grin appeared on the corner of his lips.

Street Misery as the name suggests was nothing like Carson imagined. It was crowded with shops selling dead urchins, slugs, snails of different forms and sizes, frog skin, and gray hairs. Booming voices of vendors and street singers echoed across the dark granite walls as people walked to and fro some asking for a discount while the others climb unto their wagons carrying a handful of baskets. Carson trudged his hand leaning on his pale cane. He was wearing his pale robe since pale is a shade every one of these days prefers and matched it with a dark top hat. The sky overhead was blanketed with pale gray clouds. It's about to rain, Carson thought. He adjusted his spectacles to his nose bridge and counted each block he passed. Carson halted at the glass door of a coffee shop. He was certain it was number 14. He gazed behind the glass door, there was nothing unusual about it. Except that it was the only granite structure all across the Street Misery that uses glass as the main door. Carson scratched his head. Maybe he was just hallucinating, he thought. He read it once in a news article that old people are more prone to hallucinations. Maybe he was hallucinating, maybe he has this condition, what do people call it? Al-Alzheimers? Chimes rattled at the door and a young man wearing a suit. A vibrant suit, it wasn't pale nor dark. It was-it was different. Carson squeezed his eyes shut a few times. The young man from the door smiled in his direction, but as soon as he stepped outside the glass door, his face began to wrinkle and his suit that was once vibrant became faded and pale, as pale as the gray sky above. Carson stood aghast. The old man wearing the same suit and grin waved at Carson his eyes were glassy and he smelled so strongly of coffee. Carson cleared his throat, with his knees shaking and his heart thudding, he walked towards the glass door. This might just be the adventure he yearns for, Carson thought.

As Carson pulled open the door, chimes began to rattle in a weird melodious way. It rhymed with the rhythm of his chest and Carson felt the sore of his back lessened and the trembling of his knees stilled. He gasped, he lifted his cane, and all of a sudden he felt the familiar feeling of strength he once had as a young man. The wrinkle of his skin faded as hard strong veins protruded from his wrist to his hand. Carson laughed, joy and excitement flooded in his chest. "Ha!" he screamed, he felt his voice deepen, sending vibrations within his throat. "I'm-I'm young!" Carson bawled in disbelief. He turned his gaze back at the glass door. But instead of seeing the street, he saw nothing but a reflection of a handsome young man wearing a vibrant colored robe and a nice hat. It was red, Carson thought. The robe was a color of crimson, as red as blood. The knowledge of colors came to Carson's mind in a sudden rush. The man, the man staring back at him in the mirror was himself. His hair was the same color as the autumn leaves, his eyes deep blue like an ocean. In Carson's world, the ocean is the same as the shade of a pale sky. But these things, these words, these colors flashed on his mind before he even began to think of it. He pulled his spectacle and tucked it into the pocket of his robe. He had astonishingly regained his vision. Carson beamed. For the first time in 50 years, he felt like a renewed man once again. He swung his cane on his hand and trudged merrily at the crimson carpet. Golden candelabra's stood at the marbled walls, spraying a ray of golden light. Women and men in lavish suit danced at the wide mosaic floors as lights flickered which their footsteps. At the corner of the massive room, was a pack of velvet seat and silvered tables, where women with painted lips sat gleefully, eyes fixed glistening with adoration at their male companions. Men wearing a tuxedo stood proudly with their backs on the walls carrying a tray of mugs with their left hand and a napkin in their right. Carson went towards an empty table, he was greeted by one of the men in a tuxedo and lifted the velvet chair for Carson to sit in. "May I take your order sire?" the man asked, his steel-gray eyes held Carson's gaze for a moment. " Umm, yeah," Carson replied. "May I have a nice hot espresso?" The man in the tuxedo suit scowled. "Forgive me sire, but we do not offer classics," "You may look at the list of today's menu on your table." Carson glanced at the empty table. "But there isn't a-" A golden tablet appeared in the midst of the table, letters, and words carved on the golden tablet in a tangled writing style. Carson held the tablet between his hands. It felt as light as a feather. He read the options and was convinced that they offered no plain coffee. He brushed his chin with his thumb. He had no idea what those flavors are. As far as Carson is concerned, he only knew a single flavor of coffee, and that was espresso. The waiter clicked his tongue and sighed. "Perhaps you'd like to try our new flavor, sire?" "It just came out now, it's very, very new and you won't be disappointed." Carson nodded. He could no longer confer with this fellow, the old Carson thought. The waiter sauntered towards an emerald vine-like door. He glanced back at Carson and grinned. Carson waved his cane, an old gesture he used as an old man. He pulled his hat and ran his hand through his remarkably thick hair. Carson smiled, he missed this thing. Being a young man and all. A woman in a vibrant emerald dress stared at Carson across his table. Her cherry red hair was tucked behind her ears, her eyes were like a rainbow of colors. Carson knew nothing about the colors of the rainbow, but as soon as he laid eyes on the young woman across his table. He felt like it was the right word, for her eyes shone so beautifully that he could not differ if it was red, green, blue, or purple. He marveled at her countenance. A high squeaky voice grunted at Carson's side. "Sire!" Carson jumped, he clutched his chest with his palm as if expecting a heart attack. "Pardon me sire, but here's your order." "Shit," Carson whispered. The woman in an emerald silk dress chuckled in her seat. "Here's your coffee sire, it's called kopi luwak and the rarest of its kind." "Thanks," Carson replied, his face flushed. The waiter nodded and walked. The woman in emerald dress plodded at Carson's direction. Carson coughed. "Diane," she said. "I'm sorry, what?" Carson asked bewildered. "My name's Diane," her voice was raspy yet beautiful. She sat on the empty seat beside Carson. "Kopi luwak, hmm...Great choice." She smelled faintly like roses and lavender. Carson cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I should've asked the waiter for two," he said. "You're a gentleman, but no." she replied, there was a smile hiding at the corner of her fine lips. "Considering it's a cat shit," she whispered. Carson coughed on his seat, he thumped his chest with his fist as the hot coffee spattered on the table. Diane cackled and wiped her eyes with her fingers. "That's sick!" Carson said, his face flushed with shame. He chuckled as he wiped the table with a napkin. "Indeed, indeed," said Diane. She was still giggling. "Your face when I told you," she tittered. "I'm Carson, Carson West," Carson held his hand towards Diane. Diane shook his hand in reply, her multicolored eyes glinted as she held Carson's gaze. "Pleasure," she said. "Would you like to dance?" She asked.

They glided on the mosaic floors, their feet glowing as they danced mirthfully with their hands entwined. For once in his life since Blessinda's death, Carson felt alive and content. Diane twirled gracefully on Carson's hand, her eyes sparkled from the soft light of candelabra's. The curls of her cherry-red hair dangled on her small oval face. Carson felt an urge of passion looming inside his chest. Diane halted her back on Carson. She leaned her head on his chest, her hair smelled like roses. "You are..." Carson whispered in her ear. "Sensational..." She turned and faced Carson. A smile appeared on her lips. "You can stay here, you know," she uttered. "And never go back to that dull, old world of yours." She held Carson's gaze, Carson felt the pleasant rhythm of his chest. "In this place, you can never grow old." Carson pondered about the time he spent idly as an old man, about the sadness he often felt while he sat alone on his porch. After a minute of silence, he stared back at Diane and whispered. "I have children, I once had a wife I so dearly loved." He held Diane's shoulder with great gentleness. "I have grand-children, I love them. I have to go back." Carson's held his breath awaiting Diane's reply. Diane nodded at him. "Come," she whispered as she leaned on Carson's neck. Her breathe warm against his ear. "I'm going to show you something."

Diane ran, her hands clutching Carson's. She ran towards the marbled wall, Carson felt his chest hammered. "Diane, it's a wall," Diane ignored him, and soon the wall stretched into a narrow alleyway. Carson stared open-mouthed. It was so filled with colors and lights, it was like-like walking in a-a. "It's a kaleidoscope," Diane muttered, beaming at Carson. Colors reflected on her eyes, and all Carson thought was that she was beautiful. They ran with their hands tangled, lights dancing on the walls. And soon as they made it at the edge of the kaleidoscope alley, they emerged in a large room filled with paintings on walls. Carson halted. He gazed around the room. Huge painting canvas stared back in his direction. "These are all colors, Carson," Diane mumbled. "Color's can depict anything, even our deepest emotions." Carson walked towards the largest of all the paintings. It read Van Gogh, Starry Night dated 1889. He brushed his hand on the canvas, he felt the rough texture of its strokes on his palm. He closed his eyes and imagined himself as a painter. He wondered what it would be like if he painted his life on a single canvas. Would it be dull, shaded with darkness like the world he once belonged? Would it be as bright and serene as Van Gogh's imagination? "Colors are everywhere Carson," Diane whispered. He glanced at Diane and shook his head. "No, in my world it isn't Diane," Carson replied, emotions swirling on his chest. He felt his eyes blurred with tears. Diane held his chin with her soft fingers, his eyes met that of Diane's. "It's here," said Diane as she pressed her palm on his chest. Tears streaked on Carson's cheek, she leaned in and kissed Carson's forehead.

It was indeed the first and the last adventure of Carson West. As he laid on his dull creaky deathbed, his grand-children whispering their goodbyes. He felt his chest warmed with happiness. After he left the coffee shop of Street Misery, Carson decided that he will go back and see Diane. But as days passed, he began to get more weary and sick that he failed to fulfill his last wish. He had forgotten the names of the colors nor can he recall the way which led to Street Misery. But the one thing that stayed on Carson's heart as he exhaled the last air left in his lungs was the color of Diane's eyes.