HOME | DD

Description
Good morning. I am awoken by a flood of color as the birds sing their lavender melodies. I lie still, my eyes closed, bathing in the birdsong that floods behind my eyes. My reverie is broken as my mother’s footsteps echo red down the hall. She briskly opens the door, her hands on her hips, glaring at me.

As she speaks sharp crystals of anxious yellows and oranges clouded my mind. Get up, she demands, you useless thing, get up. I cringe at her words, my eyes stinging with the brightness and anger of the colors her voice invokes. With a final bark to rouse me, she turns and slams the door.

The noise is agony. I clutch my head for a few moments before I can see clearly enough to stand next to the bed. I am once again calmed by the birdsong and the wind outside, soothed by the soft, pale lines dancing across my eyes.

This happens almost every morning: my mother’s eruption into my room, whether I was awake already inside or not, plunging me into pain. She knows I have a condition; yet what it is she does not understand and therefore resents. Though I am small and hardly understand my condition myself, she has no mercy. She does not and can not comprehend the blessings and curses of seeing colors with sounds.

My father often begs her to take pity on me, but he is drunk and his slurred words are ignored. When he is not drunk his words, to me, are like honey; even my mother ceases her embittered ranting to hear him. His voice is molten gold, so sweet I can almost taste it as well as see it. When he is not drunk and mother is at the market, he sometimes takes me on his lap, whistling a light blue tune, and blows affectionately in my ear. The feeling makes me snort with laughter, drunk with blue and pink. In his arms I trace the colors with my fingers while he watches me tenderly. Reflected through a prism my life would be rainbows.

Yet my happiness is always short-lived; my mother’s spiked yellows and reds jab my consciousness and command me to do chores. The tasks are more than a ten-year-old can handle, but I spare my eyes and mind the pain of complaining. I pick up my mop and pail and as quietly as possible slap the water to the floor.

Today, standing by my bed, I ache. The night before I had awoken in a twist of deeply melancholy brown, hearing the tears of a neighbor recovering from her husband’s beating. My eyes are sore, as though I had cried along with her, though I know it is only because the brown against my eyelids was so heavy and dark. I am tired and spent, and I have only just woken.

I leave my room, padding quietly to the basket of laundry I am meant to scrub that morning. I drag the basket outside so I can fill the basin with clean water, and also so I can watch the symphony my mind will compose to accompany the subtle sounds of the neighborhood. As I rinse the clothes I close my eyes and the colors bleed together. Suddenly something is different. Perking my ears I hear a voice; I look to the street. A boy chases a dog, both yipping happily. His laughter rains gold. He stops as the dog leaps away, and, feeling my eyes, bravely approaches me. Hello, he says, what are you doing?

Washing, I say. My eyes are swimming with a gold river.

Girl stuff, he replies proudly. He must not be much older than I. I absently continue my washing, listening to his soft humming, in awe of his voice’s masterpiece of art that only I can see. He saunters around my little yard, apparently bored by my industriousness. Suddenly his humming stops; I pause in my washing. A stream of air blows in my ear, and I cannot help but giggle. The boy grins at my reaction. Got you, he guffawed.

Want to go for a walk?, he questions me after I regain my composure. I nod, forgetting my chores. The golden sounds of his voice have drawn me in, as my father’s do when he pulls me into his lap. Hand-in-hand with this unknown boy, listening to his chatter and merry laughter, I can see brightness amidst a sea of black.

Description
Good morning. I am awoken by a flood of color as the birds sing their lavender melodies. I lie still, my eyes closed, bathing in the birdsong that floods behind my eyes. My reverie is broken as my mother’s footsteps echo red down the hall. She briskly opens the door, her hands on her hips, glaring at me.

As she speaks sharp crystals of anxious yellows and oranges clouded my mind. Get up, she demands, you useless thing, get up. I cringe at her words, my eyes stinging with the brightness and anger of the colors her voice invokes. With a final bark to rouse me, she turns and slams the door.

The noise is agony. I clutch my head for a few moments before I can see clearly enough to stand next to the bed. I am once again calmed by the birdsong and the wind outside, soothed by the soft, pale lines dancing across my eyes.

This happens almost every morning: my mother’s eruption into my room, whether I was awake already inside or not, plunging me into pain. She knows I have a condition; yet what it is she does not understand and therefore resents. Though I am small and hardly understand my condition myself, she has no mercy. She does not and can not comprehend the blessings and curses of seeing colors with sounds.

My father often begs her to take pity on me, but he is drunk and his slurred words are ignored. When he is not drunk his words, to me, are like honey; even my mother ceases her embittered ranting to hear him. His voice is molten gold, so sweet I can almost taste it as well as see it. When he is not drunk and mother is at the market, he sometimes takes me on his lap, whistling a light blue tune, and blows affectionately in my ear. The feeling makes me snort with laughter, drunk with blue and pink. In his arms I trace the colors with my fingers while he watches me tenderly. Reflected through a prism my life would be rainbows.

Yet my happiness is always short-lived; my mother’s spiked yellows and reds jab my consciousness and command me to do chores. The tasks are more than a ten-year-old can handle, but I spare my eyes and mind the pain of complaining. I pick up my mop and pail and as quietly as possible slap the water to the floor.

Today, standing by my bed, I ache. The night before I had awoken in a twist of deeply melancholy brown, hearing the tears of a neighbor recovering from her husband’s beating. My eyes are sore, as though I had cried along with her, though I know it is only because the brown against my eyelids was so heavy and dark. I am tired and spent, and I have only just woken.

I leave my room, padding quietly to the basket of laundry I am meant to scrub that morning. I drag the basket outside so I can fill the basin with clean water, and also so I can watch the symphony my mind will compose to accompany the subtle sounds of the neighborhood. As I rinse the clothes I close my eyes and the colors bleed together. Suddenly something is different. Perking my ears I hear a voice; I look to the street. A boy chases a dog, both yipping happily. His laughter rains gold. He stops as the dog leaps away, and, feeling my eyes, bravely approaches me. Hello, he says, what are you doing?

Washing, I say. My eyes are swimming with a gold river.

Girl stuff, he replies proudly. He must not be much older than I. I absently continue my washing, listening to his soft humming, in awe of his voice’s masterpiece of art that only I can see. He saunters around my little yard, apparently bored by my industriousness. Suddenly his humming stops; I pause in my washing. A stream of air blows in my ear, and I cannot help but giggle. The boy grins at my reaction. Got you, he guffawed.

Want to go for a walk?, he questions me after I regain my composure. I nod, forgetting my chores. The golden sounds of his voice have drawn me in, as my father’s do when he pulls me into his lap. Hand-in-hand with this unknown boy, listening to his chatter and merry laughter, I can see brightness amidst a sea of black.