Untitled (so far anyway)

Just something I've been working on. I previously posted two parts that I had written. Now I've extended the first part. I'm still reaching the 2nd though. 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 17 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.

“Eden,” Evaughn pokes me in the side, trying to get my attention because I am concentrating more on my watering eyes than I am on the conversation.

“Hmm,” I look over at her, able to make out the shape of her oboe case held securely to her chest, “what is it?”

“Are you going to be there tonight?” She pushes her glasses back up with one of her fingers, “at my recital I mean.”

“Oh,” I blink, “of course I’m going to be there. I said I was, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I was just double checking. My mom has to work tonight, so she won’t be able to make it. Do you think you’d be able to record it for me so she can watch it later?”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I say.

Evaughn, other than her looks, is shunned because she’s a scholarship student. Her family has no money. She had applied and was accepted due to her ability to play the oboe so well. Everyone at the school was able to do something well. You had to or else you weren’t accepted. I was accepted because I was able to paint and draw well.

“I swear to god if they don’t stop type casting me I’m going to go insane,” a boy with short black hair said as he sat down next to us.

“They’re just jealous because you can act better than them,” I say as he shakes his head and began pushing his food around with his fork.

“Either that or they’re afraid you’re such a good actor that you’ll make them look gay,” Evaughn said as she glances at him.

“It’s frustrating,” Brock explodes, “just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I can’t play a straight part.”

The cafeteria started to fill as classes got out. Pretty soon the colors became too much and I found myself reaching for my sunglasses, even though, at the moment, the lighting was low. I stopped myself before anyone could see what I was actually thinking about doing and stuffed the sunglasses in my bag instead of on my face. Instead I squinted around the room, my eyes watering slightly.

“You look bored,” Brock says, taking a bite of food, “come to think of it, you always look bored.”

“Maybe because I always am,” I say jokingly as I stick my tongue out at him.

Brock rolls his eyes at and goes back to his food. Several years ago I had received that same comment from the housemaid at the time.

“It’s because your mother isn’t here,” she had clucked at me as she arranged and rearranged the pillows on the couch. I simply shrugged and continued watching television and drinking my soda. Thinking back on it made me realize that no one had ever realized when I was joking. I would have to change that.

The bell rings and I’m excited. I can’t help it. My next class is art, and it’s also my final class. I pick my things up (which include my book bag and a tackle box full of paints and brushes) and walk to class.

Miss Brody greets me at the door. She’s another reason why I like the class so much. She has so much fun and enjoys her job so much that you can help but enjoy her class. I walk over to my easel and set my things down. I take a deep breath and yank the cover off my painting.

My current painting is giving me more trouble than any other I’ve ever done. I’m attempting to paint a portrait of my mother, which is more problematic than it sounds. My father has no pictures of my mother, none around the house, in his bedroom or even in his wallet (I’ve checked). So all I have to work off of is the picture from the obituaries and the description given to me from a maid who knew my mother when my parents first met.

My mother and I have the same hair color, although hers was longer and wavy where as mine is kept to just below my chin and it’s straight. I have her bone structure but I have my fathers bright green eyes, not my mothers, which I’ve been told look like liquid sunshine and golden honey. My mother had freckles across her nose and cheeks, and I don’t. I have the same milky soft, pale skin that she did. I have painted all of it, except for her eyes, which I can’t seem to get right.

“Eden,” Miss Brody says as she she stops a few feet away from me, “not to pressure you or anything. I know you're working hard, and I know the colors will come to you, but this project is due in a few days.” She knows my frustration and has been encouraging me every step along the way.

“I know,” I say to her, thumping my paintbrush against my knee, “I know the painting is due soon, but it doesn’t seem like the colors are going to come to me.”

Miss Brody smiles at me and walks away. She has never tried to tell me how I should mix my colors, or which brush to use, which has happen at previous schools. She lets me work in a quiet dark corner of the room, away from other people, knowing that I like that.

I stare at my pallet, almost willing the colors to mix themselves into the perfect shade of gold so I can finally paint my mothers eyes and bring her fully to life. They don’t, and I have to mix them myself.

I watch my hands as they move around, pushing paint together. I don’t do anything else but stare at the colors as I swirl them together with my brush. Then I have nothing but a pile of brown mush and no actual work done.

Suddenly the bell rings and I jump. I look at the clock. Where did the two hours go? I stare back down at my pallet and can’t figure out how I managed to stir a glob of paint for two hours straight. I shrug, throw the sheet back over my painting and walk out of the room, feeling extremely unproductive.

I walk out of the school and into the parking lot to my car. I wave at Brock and Evaughn as they’re about to get into his car, carpooling on the way home. I would carpool as well, but we live on separate sides of town, and it would be a waste more than it would help for me to be in the mix.

I quickly put my sunglasses on, trying to keep up the façade that I was light sensitive, even though when I am out of the school is when I don’t need them. I hop into my car and drive home.

I don’t mind driving by myself. I prefer it actually. It’s better than pretending to be interested in what other people are saying while you’re trying to pay attention to the road. My dad is the same way, though I suppose that’s because of the accident.

I pull into the driveway and sit in my car. I know I will be by myself. My car is the only one in the driveway. We have a housemaid, but she has the day off. I open the door to my car, jump out and go into my house.

Throwing my things on the floor just inside the door, I decide I need a healthy snack to try to make up for the time I lost. I don't know how I lost so much time. What happened today?

The fridge opens and I peer inside. I see soda and some random things that I'm too lazy at the moment to put together. I pull open the crisper drawer and look in. Apples are waiting patiently to be consumed and I won't make one wait any longer. I pluck it up and take a big bite. I grab a napkin before the juice can run down my chin and feel better almost immediately. How did I manage to waste so much time?

The clock above the stove reads 4:32, and I know it's time to get to work on my homework before I go to Evaughn's recital. I walk to the stairs and grab my bag on the way. The stairs are silent as I walk up them, no creek or noise; it's something thats unnerving when you're alone in a large house.

My room is on the opposite side of the house from my dads. It's large and holds all the things a kid my age could ever want. A large flat panel LCD TV, a desktop computer and a laptop, a California king size bed, and random game consoles hooked up to the TV. I don't even know what they are. I don't play video games. The walk-in closet is full of clothes I barely have time to wear anymore since I go to a private school, and I know without looking that Marcia, our housemaid, has all my uniforms hanging on the inner most hanger on the right side.

I am unaware of when math began to have more letters than numbers in it, but I wish that day had never happened. I get to work on my math and soon I'm lost in it. I glance up every once in a while to keep tabs on the time, but that doesn't keep be from losing track of the time and running late.

“S**t,” I close my math book and look at my watch. Evaughn's recital is in a half hour, and still needed to find the digital recorder.

I get up quickly from my chair and almost fall down as my feet tangle with the legs of the chair. I try to scramble away and luckily I manage to regain my footing. I make my way to my closet, hoping like mad that I'd remember where I stuck the damn camera.

Rummaging through the closet, I'm glad Marcia is there to organize things, but then on the other hand I'm not. I have no idea where she put the camera, and just like every other random thing, when I need it I can never find it.

I'm about on the edge of hysterics when I'm digging through a box and I spot it near the bottom. I dig the thing out and check the battery and see that it's at full. I kick the already looked through boxes out of my way, grab my keys before I walk out of my bedroom door, and hurry to the recital concert hall.

Barely arriving on time, I set up near the back but make sure no ones fat head is going to get in my way. The lights dim down sooner than I expect them too and soon the recital hall is filled with beautiful music.

I've always enjoyed listening to Evaughn play, but for some reason I can't concentrate. Usually I'm a great listener, especially with more contemporary, classical music, but for some reason I am becoming sleeping. Not the I'm-going-to-fall-asleep sleepy, more like the I-only-got-four-hours-of-sleep-and-it's-five-in-the-morning sleepy. I feel like I'm half glazed over and I feel rather ashamed. Then, before I know it, the recital has ended.

“How did I do?” Evaughn runs up to me.

“You did great!” I exclaim, putting a huge smile on my face. I can't tell her I couldn't pay attention.

“Really?”

“Oh my god,” I roll my eyes, “you know you're great so stop fishing for compliments you huge girl.”

She rolls her eyes but her smile doesn't leave her face.

“You were able to record all of it, right?”

“Yep,” I held up the recorder and shook it a little, “You remember how to use it right?”

“I'm not stupid.”

“Wasn't calling you stupid, stupid.” I give her a teasing wink so she knows I'm joking, “You hooked up that DVD player I got you, right?”

“Yep, piece of cake.”

“Good,” I say and stifle a yawn, “anyway, not to end the night short, but I'm kind of tired.”

I hand the recorder over and Evaughn takes it and gives me a concerned look.

“Did you sleep alright last night?” She asks me.

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging, “I think I may be coming down with a cold or something. Anyway, you know how to use it, so just get it back to me whenever, alright?”

“Okay,” She says and waves good-bye to me as I walk away and wave back.

I walk out into the parking lot and get into my car. I don't know where the day went, but it feels like I've been drained of all my energy. I drive home and let my mind wander. I try to figure out why I'm so tired and I hope it's not mono. I don't know what I would do if I got mono, especially since I don't have a boyfriend and have never been kissed. Even though you can get mono just from sharing a drink, it's still embarrassing having “the kissing disease” without having ever been kissed.

Pulling into the driveway, I feel so tired I'm not sure if I can make it in the door. I climb out of the car and trudge up the drive way and into the house. I walk up the stairs, into my room where I collapse on my bed and don't get up. I want to sleep, but in my day clothes I know thats impossible.

My night clothes sit on the edge of the bed. I change real quick and lay back down. I feel tired but I can't sleep.

“You just have to relax,” I say to myself and take a deep breath, “just relax.”

I picture myself walking in a forest. My breathing is slow and the stars are nice and bright in the deep blue-black sky. As I walk through the trees, my outstretched fingers brush against the pines. I can feel the blades of grass on my bare feet as I walk silently through the tranquil forest. As I walk through the trees I can feel myself slipping deeper into sleep and out of consciousness.

Suddenly the dream shifts and I'm no longer alone in the forest. I hear voices and I decide to investigate. It is my dream after all.

The voices sound like a gurgling stream at first. I can't make out what is being said, but I can hear and make out two distinct voices. The closer I get the better I can hear them. Soon I'm standing near them, overlooking the people talking, and I can hear everything they say.

I'm standing above three men who are standing around a fire. I'm looking down at them through some branches, and even though it is my dream, I feel like I'm a peeping tom intruding on something private.

“Do you know where she is?” One of the men asks. The younger one, perhaps.

“We only know she is in California living a human life,” the other two men speak in unison. They're twins.

“How will I know it's her?”

“Sahariel,” one of the twins steps around the fire and puts a hand on his shoulder, “just like her, you were not raised around our kind, but unlike her, you know about the fey, you know what you are. You will know who she is once you see her, but unfortunately she will not.”

“She might not accept what you tell her,” the other twin says quietly as he stares into the fire, “if she doesn't accept it, you must stay with her. No matter what. She will accept it soon enough.”

“She wasn't easy to find either,” the man says as he finally looks up from the flames.

“What do you mean?” Sahariel asks.

“It's like she's untraceable,” the man near Sahariel says, “like her mother, but more so.”

“We had to use magic to amplify her inner energy, and unfortunately we have no idea how she reacted to that.”

“What the hell are they talking about?” I whisper to myself.

I try to get closer. My dream has taken an extremely odd turn and since this is my dream I was going to find out why.

Taking a few steps forward, I try to not take my eyes off the three men. I don't want them to disappear. Then as I'm about to open my mouth to shout at the three men, a sudden noise ripples through the silence.

I glance down. I've stepped on a twig. I look up at the men and I almost scream.

Sahariel has a sword out and is coming toward me, he is cloaked in evil, menacing dark colors. They're swirling madly around him and I don't have to look at his face to know he is out to kill me.

I scream; or at least I try. I feel like there is no air in my lungs, no matter how many panic drawn breaths I take.

This doesn't feel like a dream anymore. The are is too dry and it feels like it's pulsing with its own angry, malicious intentions. I don't like it, and I feel like the only emotion I can feel as I turn around to run away is an uninhibited, strangling fear.

I try not to stumble, trip or fall down, but I am unsuccessful. It feels like the trees are somehow conspiring against me, trying to keep me in the awful place longer than I want to.

“Eden!” Sahariel shouts my name, but I can't tell how close he is to me and I'm not turning around to find out.

He shouts my name again, but it's muffled by the trees. The forest around me begins to echo his call, turning into an omniscient, ambiguous voice.

“Eden... Eden... Eden...” the forest whispers my name intimately into my ear and I shudder.

I fall to the ground and cover my ears as the whisper quickly turns from a gentle sound caressing my thoughts to a voice so loud it's hammering into my brain. Then I begin to shake.

Tremors and quakes wrack my body and I can't stop them. It feels like someone has taken a hold of my body and it's thrashing it about. I close my eyes as tight as I can and hope it all stops soon.

“Eden!” someone shouts. A familiar someone.

My eyes fly open. It's Marcia.

“You can stop shaking me now,” I say, each of my words punctuated with a shake.

Finally she stops and has an extremely relieved look on her face.

“Dear lord, girl,” she puts a hand over her heart, “you almost gave me a heart attack. I've been sittin' here for five minutes trying to wake you up. Are you okay?”

She takes a long look at my face to make sure I'm alright.

“Yeah,” I say and shake my head a little, almost as if to knock the memory loose, “it must have been a bad dream. I really don't remember.”

All I had managed to remember were blurry trees and a stifling fear.

Marcia gives me a quick once over to be sure I'm telling the truth. Then she takes a deep breath and smiles.

“Okay,” she gets up from the edge of the bed, “I'm going grocery shopping. Is there anything specific you'd like?”

I shake my head no.

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

“Well, if you change your mind just give me a call on my cell phone, alright?”

“Okay,” I smile.

She reaches over and ruffles my hair with her hand and I swat her away and roll my eyes. She walks out of the room, waves good-by and closes the door.

The sun is shining bright outside and the clock reads 12:34. How did I manage to sleep to late?

I yawn and stretch, hearing my bones pop into life. I don't know why I feel so tired. It's like my energy got sucked out of me without my knowledge or consent. I had the flu once when I was younger. That sucked, but at least my body doesn't ache like it did then.

I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. I pull open the door and grab a bottle of water. Flopping down on the couch, I turn the television on and watch without thinking. Seconds go by and the door opens and Marcia walks in.

“Did you forget something?” I ask her.

“No, why do you ask?” She gives me a confused look.

“Because you've only been gone for a few minutes?”

“No,” she drags the word out, “I've been gone for at least a few hours.”

She gives me a worried look and I know she's about ready to call the doctor and have him come out and give me a check up.

“Are you feeling okay?” She asks me in a concerned tone.

I frown at the television. Where did two hours go?

“Yeah,” I give her a small smile, “I'm fine. I must have just zoned out there for bit. Seriously, don't worry about me. If I was sick I'd let you know so you could call the doctor. Now stop giving me that look and down worry about me.”

She sighs and gives up trying to be worried about me. She knows not to push me too hard, because if I was sick, then I wouldn't want to see the doctor just in spite. I return to watching television as Marcia puts away the groceries.

Marcia's shuffling around noises mix with the sound of the television, both of which I'm not really paying attention to. The noises converge into some sort of white noise that I can hear but don't listen to. Pots and pans bang together, Marcia is saying something, and then all of the sudden dinner is done after what feels like only ten minutes.

“What is it?” I ask before I even get up.

“Didn't you hear me when I first started? I had told you I was going to make chicken enchiladas casserole style, and if you didn't want it for you to tell me.”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I didn't hear you,” I say, “It must have been the television.”

“Alright, well,” she shrugs, “dinner is done, so come eat.”

I get up from the couch, plate my food, and sit down at the table. I'm not sure if I'm hungry or not. I'm also not sure if a whole day has gone by or not. I look at the clock and it tells me it's already eight at night. Where the hell did all my time go today?

“Marcia,” I look up from my untouched food and see her getting up to take care of her dish already.

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever,” I stop and frown, trying to figure out how to word it without sounding crazy, “have you ever felt like you've been losing chunks of time? Like, one minute it will be morning and then the next moment several hours have gone by?”

“Once,” she says, “when I was younger. I got really sick and I slept a lot. I was in and out for a few days, sleeping all the time. Was really tired. Why? What's up?”

“Oh, nothing. I just don't think I slept too well because of that dream last night. This whole day has just felt like it's gone by too quickly.”

“That's understandable,” Marcia smiles at me, “why don't you get to bed early tonight and rest up so this doesn't happen tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “sounds like a good plan.”

I get up from the table, my food untouched. I'm not hungry. I'm mostly just tired and awestruck. I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that I've been spacing out this much. It makes no sense. And to top it all off I still can't remember the nightmare.

When I crawl into bed, I tell myself everything will be better in the morning. Everything will be better with sleep. Every lost bit of time that I don't remember will be given back to me. Or so I hope.

Author's Note

Please try to ignore any spelling errors or lack of correct grammar. If you would, please point out any confusing areas in the tenses so it can be fixed or clarified. Anywho, you should be able to find the previous posting I did to read the second part if you'd like.

Reviews

[paul4u]

The girl who sees... colors. What a magnificent concept. You can go anywhere you want with this and I, for one, cant wait! I love this story and your writing style. Thank you for this!