Untitled (as of right now)

This is just a little bit of what I have written down. This is eventually going to be a whole book, I think. Enjoy.

 

My name is Eden Everet, and well, I don’t know what I am. All I really and truly know is that I’m 16 years old with short red hair and bright green eyes. The things I am completely and utterly unsure of are what I can do. I don’t know why I see the colors that I do, but I do know why I don’t talk about them.

From the first moment I can remember, I’ve always been able to see the colors, but I think that over the years, they’ve gotten worse, grown brighter with each passing moment. In the past they used to only brighten when I would concentrate on them, but now they were so bright I had to squint to see past them to people’s faces. The only thing that helps are the sunglasses and wearing them makes people make fun of me and makes my teachers think I’ve grown up under bad parenting.

Now, my father is what some might call distant. I don’t know what he is, he’s hardly ever around and when he is, he gives me these weird looks. I don’t know the thoughts behind them, but his colors turn a murky blue, and his eyes become distant, as if he’s remembering something in the past and it hurts. He doesn’t talk about it, even though I know what it is.

My mother died when I was very, very young. She died in a car accident weeks after I was born. It was a drunk driver that ultimately took her life. He had lost control, swerved out of his lane and back into it, clipping my mothers back bumper in the process. The small car she was driving turned sharply and she ended up getting t-boned. I don’t remember her, and the only reason why I know what she looks like is because of the picture that was in the news paper. My father’s been in pain ever since.

Some would call him aloof, distant, almost non-caring, but that’s not true. He’s just in pain; so much pain it’s crippled him. It’s almost as if my mother was his soul and he died along with her. There have been times though, where I see the real him shine through, where his happiness comes through, and I see the man my mother fell in love with.

There have been moments where, when he is home, I know I’ll have done something that reminds him of her. He will get this smile on his face and the warmth will spread across his face, throwing a spark of life into his eyes. Then he will look at me and the cold comes rolling back in like high tide on a beach. It’s like he’s hurt himself with just the memory.

He does care; he just shows it in odd ways. For instance, for my 16^th birthday he bought me a car, a Range Rover, the same car that one of the popes used. I guess he wants to keep a repeat out of the paper. He wants me to be safe. He calls every night when he’s away, just to make sure I’ve made it home alright.

I clearly remember the first time I received a negative reaction from saying something about the colors. Even though I was young, kindergarten maybe, I remember the moment as if it happened yesterday.

The class was doing arts and crafts, cutting the mutely colored construction paper and creating random pictures with the pieces. I was bored; art was always a subject I excelled in. I decided to try something different by cutting the paper with my left hand instead of my right.

I remember my teacher kneeling down next to me and placing her hand over mine, stopping me from making my next cut.

“Now Eden, if you use your left hand, you might mess up and use too much paper and then the other children might not have enough.” She had said to me. I remember thinking that the paper didn’t cost too much, and that it could probably be replaced easily enough, but she continued to stop me whenever I attempted to use my left hand.

After enough attempts I put up a big enough fuss that she finally gave up, but not before she became frustrated and it spilled out into her colors.

“That’s not a very pretty red on you,” I had said to her as I cut the paper, looking up at her as she glanced back at me startled.

After that I knew it might not be a good idea to say anything about the colors floating around people. A week later my nanny was dragging me into the eye doctor to have my eyes examined. My teacher had called and spoken with her, informing her of what had happened. My nanny was worried and took me in. The doctors found nothing wrong. After that I deemed it necessary to not say anything. I was five then. The next instance wasn’t so easily brushed off.

We were living in New York at the time, and it was my first year of high school. I was sitting with the popular crowd at lunch and the boys were making fun of another boy who just so happened to be gay. One of the girls was “defending” him, and that’s when I spoke out.

“Stop making fun of him,” she said, only because she knew the boy they were making fun of was within earshot. She was queen bee of the whole school, and wanted everyone to love her. That’s how it was, either you were loved or hated, there was no in between, and at that moment I wanted her to be hated by that boy.

“Stop speaking as though you care about these people,” I said looking over my drink, “I can plainly see that you don’t care about him. Go ahead, make fun of him, I know you want to.”

The little actress gave me such a dirty look, but quickly concealed it with surprise.

“How dare you say that,” She said loud enough for people around to hear, “he has done nothing wrong, neither have I. I was just trying to speak nicely of him.”

People around were staring, and I was shunned at that very moment, but I didn’t care. I didn’t like this girl, her colors always betrayed her words, so I was glad that I sat alone, but I didn’t have to sit alone for long. A few weeks later my father told me we were moving to our current house in San Diego.

When I was younger I thought it was a normal part of life, that everyone could do it. But then as I grew older I learned that it’s not a normal part of life, that not every one can see what I see. I learned to keep my mouth shut when the colors surrounding someone changed to a nasty shade of puke green when their boyfriend would eye me up and down, then change to a smug purple when the boyfriend recoils as he realizes who I am. What they think I am, I’m not quite sure, but I’ve heard the whisperings of the word “freak” as I walk past them in the hallways of my high school, and because of this, I don’t have very many friends.

The friends that I do have are also those labeled as freaks, but only because of the way they dress, not because they wear sunglasses in crowds to avoid the swirling mass of colors. Even in a large school a gay boy is still ostracized and that emo goth chick who plays the oboe and wears thick plastic horn-rimmed glasses, no matter where she is, is still made fun of.

So then the three of us found each other. There’s the gay boy who wears his school uniform sweater around his shoulders and has a crush on half the football team, and the girl who carries her oboe around like a security blanket, who wears her uniform plaid skirt with black tights and blocky clog like shoes. Then there’s me, the 5’2” redhead who could be popular if not branded a freak.

I shouldn’t be surprised though, since I’ve never been popular, no matter how many different schools I attend. I’ve always been labeled as “off” in some way. I thought that finally being enrolled in a private Magnet school I could finally avoid the ridicule, but I was wrong.

Public school had always been hard simply because my father is a high profile lawyer and earns a lot of money. An odd rich kid isn’t all too welcome in public school. Now that I was in the private school it wasn’t any better. At first they accepted me, but when they began to notice that I wore sunglasses all the time, they quickly changed their minds. I went from being accepted by them to being shunned to the back corner of the cafeteria along with Brock and Evaughn in just a few weeks. Somehow even the teachers dislike me, except for my art teacher, Miss Brody, who doesn’t give me disgusted looks when I wear my sunglasses in her class.

I was so happy to learn that we were moving, not because it would be a different school, but that it would be a private school, and I got my hopes up, thinking my fathers money wouldn’t automatically make me popular or unpopular. Unfortunately it didn’t matter, money or no money, good looks or not, I was still the odd man out due to my “light sensitivity” and my constant sunglasses.

My life is a pile of odd things, but I deal with them as they come and try not to let them get to me. I live my life as best I can, I just hope I can keep up with anything else that decides to blindside me.

-----

 

I can see him speaking, but I don’t hear a word. All I hear is the sound of my heart beating in my chest as I see the man from my dream walk into the room. The crowd ebbs and flows around him as if he is the moon and they are the sea, as if his presence dictates theirs.

I don’t move, I don’t look away; I want to look away, but I can’t, I’m stuck. I feel as though he and I are connected on some basic level and no amount of evolution can change that.

“Sahariel.”

So quit I can barely hear it, his name leaves my lips. I didn’t have to whisper though. I could have shouted. As soon as his name reaches my own ears his head turns immediately and his eyes meet mine. Then he begins to do the worst thing imaginable; he starts to move toward me and I begin to panic.

“Eden are you okay?” Brock puts his hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my stupor.

“Seriously, you look like you’re about to have a panic attack,” Evaughn says, extremely astute.

“No,” I begin to say, “I don’t- I don’t know. I just… I feel like I need to get out.” I fidget as I try not to make it obvious as to why I’m nervous. Then Brock’s eyes follow mine.

“Is it because of the new kid?” He asks.

“No.”

“Oh my god,” Brock practically squeals, “You’re boy crazy!”

“I am not,” I try to keep my voice down but it begins to shake.

“Oh my god you totally are,” Evaughn agrees with Brock, sounding like the cheerleaders that shun her.

Soon I was forgotten once Brock realized that the new kid was actually coming over, not just walking our direction.

My eyes dart around the room looking for any possible escape routes, but none of them worked. I saw it in his eyes that he knew I couldn’t go anywhere, almost triumphant. My panic was rising with each step he took, and before I know it he’s right there looking down at me, his sea slowly ebbing away from the freak like the sea at low tide.

“Hello,” he says, holding out his hand, “I’m Sahariel.”

He smiles as if it’s an inside joke that I already somehow know his name. I don’t think it’s funny. I frown at him. Pretty soon he’s frowning back, his hand still extended in a very awkward greeting.

“Sorry,” Brock silences the awkward, “Eden is very bad with people,” he grabs Sahariel’s hand and introduces himself.

“I’m Brock.”

“And I’m Evaughn.” She waves from around her oboe.

“And this young lady right here is Eden.” Brock puts his hands on my shoulders as he says this.

I still don’t extend my hand. Instead I decide to ignore him. I know it must be some sort of practical joke. Let’s have the hot new guy hit on the not-so-new-hot-girl-freak. It’s a classic, and I hate it.

Slowly I reach over for my things and stand up, pawing his hand out of the way and moving around him. Turning around to face my friends, I put my sunglasses on. Then I see something that makes me speechless. Okay, it wasn’t something I see, but the lack of something. Sahariel has no colors. At all.

Brock reaches over and snaps my jaw shut. I guess it must have fallen open. No one else in my life had never not had colors, and yet here is this guy that has no colors at all. Oh, and I had a dream about him and somehow I know his name.

I feel like I want to get to know him, but I’m annoyed with the situation. I don’t like unwanted attention, and the attention I am getting at the moment is definitely unwanted and unwarranted, and on top of it I’m confused; I don’t know what to do.

Sahariel looks at me, his expression turning from amused to something I can’t read, and for the first time in my life I curse the colors for not appearing. I continue to stare at him. I don’t know what to do. I want to run, but I can’t. I feel like a deer caught in the head lights on an oncoming car. Then his face shifts to a mix of anxiety and concern.

“Have I done something to offend you, milady?” He asks me.

I’m in disbelief. Did he just say “milady?” What year are we in? What century? I do a quick consensus in my head. Yep, it’s the 21^st century.

My brow furrows and I give him my best “weirdo” look and I still say nothing. Then I do something my friends consider a social faux pas, especially with a hot guy. I turn and I walk away without a word.

Author's Note

This is my first attempt at 1st person perspective in present tense. I'm a little worried that I'm beginning too many of my sentences with "I...". If I could have some alternatives that would be awesome. Also, I try to jump between past and present in the first portion of this, hopefully tha's not too confusing. Please pay no attention to the spelling.

Reviews

[shythatway]

This was interesting. I think the idea with the colours is really fascinating, and I'd love to read more. The mix between past/present in the first part wasn't at all confusing, but the transition between the first and the second part made me fall off a bit. I'm not sure how these two tie together, unless the first part was meant as an 'introduction' to the whole story? Maybe that will become more evident later.