Colouring the PainA Story by Lore
My breath smells like Skittles. That is how people describe me. I find the idea of breathing on my hand to smell my breath awfully disturbing, so I can’t put my nose around how that would really smell like. If you haven't got the point yet, I eat a lot of skittles. Yet somehow I manage to keep that fact hidden from my dentist. I’ve never had cavities and my teeth never turned whatever colour teeth turn when you eat too much Skittles. I guess I’m just a natural when it comes to brushing my teeth. There is a lot about me that a lot of people don’t know.
Just recently I broke my leg because of Skittles. It happened on a bus a few weeks ago. I suppose you want me to tell you how I could possibly break my leg on a bus and what Skittles have to do with it, but right now I am not in the mood for recounting that moment. I just thought I had to bring it up. Yet, in a way that is why I am here sitting by myself staring out my window in an apartment that I’m not yet accustomed to. But the story goes deeper, crazy stuff that escalated one autumn night. Crazy stuff that forced me out of my home and into the bus where I broke my leg. Crazy stuff that happened not at my choice.
I find the worst thing about life is that you tend to forget the memories you want to remember. They are there in your noggin, but they’re pushed back and are blurry. It is the memories you want to forget that you remember more vividly. And over time they remain there like the romantic etchings on a tree trunk written by a couple no longer together. At least that is the case for me. I remember most the flying colors. The red, the yellow, the orange, the purple, the green skittles as they flew in the air and bounced against the wall. They dropped like hail. And they rolled around before settling in no order, no arc - just scattered shards of a rainbow dispersed on a checkered sky. My father his face red, and my mother’s lime shirt soaked by the tears flowing down her face. I paid a dollar and seventy-five cents for those Skittles. It adds up. Everything comes at a cost.
Prior to that night, the last time I was depressed my father was the one who made me happy. To recapture a moment we shared by a lake under a rainbow, he took Skittles and lined up all the different colours in an arch, and said the famous catch line: “taste the rainbow”. It made me laugh. And it was from this moment on, that my addiction to Skittle began.
But on that autumn night he was angry. He never usually takes his anger out on us though. Just this time because my mom told him we were moving out for a while. What followed became that vivid memory. He threw that Skittle pack, that same man who made me a rainbow out of Skittles. He made my mother cry, that same man who proposed to her and made her life temporarily happy. She told him that she’d come back when he fixed himself. She told him this when he was sober to avoid the worst reaction. He didn’t believe her. He didn’t think that she’d return. And he expressed more anger at her than the anger he expresses at himself when he’s drunk. In ways, this revelation made my father hate himself more than he already does, no matter the attempts of consolation we gave him.
I guess I must recount breaking my leg. Having enough with my dad’s tireless rants I left my home. I did not wait to accompany my mom who went to her friend’s place to stay for however long. I think she needed to be alone with her friend anyways. On the bus I found myself standing on the second floor. Standing was not the right position to be in, the driver was one of those rare drivers who would always halt to a stop suddenly for no apparent reason at all except for incompetence. It is important on these progressive roller coasters to be holding onto something. No pole? Hug the person next to you! Fortunately I was by a pole. Idiotically, I let go to pour some skittles in my hand. I was on the second floor.
It was raining that night; it wasn’t anymore when I was carried out on a stretcher. Instead there was a rainbow above me. It seemed to come out of the blue so suddenly. And hours later as I stared out my window at the hospital, the rainbow faded into the sky just as seamlessly. Even in pain the rainbow captivated me, it never ceases to do so. I enjoy every second that I bear witness to a rainbow. It doesn’t come often, and you never know if you’ll see another one again. I guess what I’m trying to say is that when my father is happy he can do many wonders. But that never lasts long. His thunderous anger can scare even the bravest of souls. But I’m not going to talk anymore of this. We are a typical family with an alcoholic father, it bores me, and I’m sure it’ll bore you too.
In a way, I would like to follow in his footsteps when I have children of my own. Maybe take them out to the lakeside that my father took the family to. That same lakeside with the lush green trees and the blue water melting into the sky. That same lakeside that inspired my dad to create a rainbow out of Skittles for me. It would’ve been banal if it weren’t for the rainbow that appeared above it. But I’d bring them there anyways, rainbow or no rainbow.
I like to say that it is impossible to become addicted to two forms of consumption at the same time. That is why I see my Skittles addiction as a positive; it keeps me from being an alcoholic. But then again addiction to anything is problematic. I wouldn’t want to create situations that would influence my children to be addicted to something. My grandpa created a depressing household, which got my father into alcohol, and my father made me fall in love with rainbows, which manifested into Skittles. Come to think of it, getting my children addicted to vegetables would be nice. All though I’d avoid doing what my mom tells me in regards to vegetables. Like so many people she calls vegetables “greens”, and it irritates me. I recall a time in my childhood when we had cauliflower for dinner, and she told me to eat my greens. Seriously and innocently I responded :
“Mom, I can’t eat my greens.”
“You can’t or you don’t want to?”
“I can’t because I don’t see any greens. I just see yellows and purples.”
Vegetables come in such a wide array of colours; people should just stick to calling them vegetables. The only time when I am excused from eating vegetables for dinner is my birthday. That would be a month from now. The last birthday I remember celebrating with my family was seven years ago. My dad abstained from alcohol for this special occasion. My mother brought out a cake. It was a vanilla ice cream cake with M & M’s. My parents thought I would love it because of the colourful embedded bite size pieces of chocolates. It was nice, but M & M’s are not Skittles, I don’t know why they didn’t put Skittles in the cake. They say the combination would ruin the taste, but is there a rule that says you have to eat the candy with the cake? Separate them! Nevertheless the cake was made, it was colourful with its red and yellow and green and blue M & M’s. That gave me delight. But when I ate it, I ate it begrudgingly.
I was evidently grumpy that afternoon. But how can you blame me when you have a neighbour who mows his lawn every Saturday at seven in the morning. My bedroom window at my previous home faced the red brick wall on the side of his house. And everyday when I’d look out my window I’d be treated to his arrogantly well-kept lawn and his nicely trimmed hedge. It annoys me how he is always tending to all his greenery. The man put a sprinkler out an hour after a rainfall!
His wife is just as bad. She rang on our doorbell to wish me happy birthday sometime after the cake incident. She pokes around from house to house looking for something to gossip about. Or sometimes, like in this occasion, she attempts these acts of kindness to try to bring the neighbourhood together when really all she does is irritate. Maybe I am too cruel, but really, she is. Two years ago I began seeing her in a different light, and living out the days after in a house beside hers exacerbated my annoyance. It was months prior to the moving in of the people across the street, that she shouted to my dad and me on our driveway. “Did you hear! A Filipino family is moving in!” I wanted to shout back how she could possibly know, and how racist that sounds, but having rifts with neighbours is the last thing you want to do. Especially someone who passes gossip around. Thinking about it, our neighbourhood would make for a good reality show. I especially wonder what the gossip queen living to our left says about my drunken father, or anyone’s response for that matter. My dad’s tireless rants can be heard down the next block. Speaking of which, I find it funny the advice my father gives me, or gave me when I was a child. I recall a time when he told me that it is bad to see things in colour; you will never grow up if you don’t see the blackness of life. You will never grow up if you keep avoiding the pains of struggle. Then I wonder, not to his face, as that would be disrespectful. But to myself I wonder, did he ever really grow up himself? However, like I said, enough of that.
So here I am. Sitting by a window in an apartment that I’m just getting accustomed to. My leg is in a cast, and I’m eating skittles. My mother went out shopping with her friend. My father probably at home drinking and pissing all over the sofa. Another rainbow is in the sky, maybe the fifth I’ve seen throughout my life. When I look up at any rainbow I can’t help but think: who else is staring at that same magnificent sight? Is there anyone looking up in awe thinking what I’m thinking? Going through what I’m going through? Longing for company? Longing for someone to be there to share this same sight with? Do they feel the same admirations? Find beauty in the most unlikely of things? I’d like to meet that person staring at the same rainbow with roughly the same thoughts and longing and view of beauty. However, I doubt there is one.
When a rainbow appears, I’d love to run out to a green pasture, and just immerse myself in the outdoors, sit there in silence and watch. But in the city it is difficult to find that silence. Even if you are alone in an apartment - there is still the distant sound of cars down below. Really, it is impossible to find complete silence anywhere. But then again, I don’t really consider noise to include the chirping of birds or the rustling of trees. In a sense, the sound of nature is silence itself. The closest thing to silence in the city is colour. When I get lost in colour I find my own personal silence. And when there is silence you feel the desire to draw what’s around you or write about it. If a sketch of a rainbow were to be drawn it would be by a careless or amateur artist. One who unintentionally draws a rainbow not in its full ark due to lack of space on the canvas; or an artist who draws a tree or a building to block out the sight of the rainbow’s end. Granted, that does happen to some who witness a rainbow, but art should never be specific with reality. Before any of this actually, he’d probably draw the landscape. Meticulously sketch out a simple scene, like a lake lined by trees. Then he’d finish the drawing with the rainbow, go over it unknowingly with a brush that does have enough paint on it. And so the rainbow appears faded. Or maybe darker on one end and fading as it completes its arc. But yes, if a rainbow were drawn it would be by a careless, amateurish artist. Because as beautiful as a rainbow is in colour. It never appears complete.
© 2009 Lore |
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Added on November 12, 2009 Last Updated on November 25, 2009 AuthorLoreScarborough, CanadaAboutWriting and Music, all that my life revolves around :). more..Writing
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