Colours

A very short story about discrimination. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

I don’t belong here. There’s a stench of colour and dirt. And sweat. The colours always stink of sweat. Not like us whites. Pristine, supreme. This is why we need segregation. If I stay here much longer, I’ll become one of them. I could turn into any colour under the sun. And who’d want me then? It’s happened before. Whites spend too long with the colours, and they become coloured. Not welcome anywhere. Too coloured for the whites to want them, but the colours don’t want you either, because they know you’re really white. Eventually, you just get thrown out with the rest of the trash.

 

I need to get out of here. If I become coloured, I’ll never be able to play cricket or tennis again! I scream but no one hears me. But a couple of hours later, someone comes and opens the cupboard and carries me downstairs with the colours. He puts me in the machine and that’s it. I’m dead. I’m… coloured.

 

But just before he turns the machine on, he spots me, takes me back upstairs and puts me back in the sock drawer with my wife. I’m all white.