A Flash of Color

The bell rang, signaling the end of the day.  Hayton Hancock sighed as he nonchalantly slipped his binder into his backpack.   He was relieved that the day was over, that he was able to go home and get a vacation from his school for a couple of days.

Actually, no.  He got out and rechecked his planner of assignments he had to do over the weekend.  Inwardly, he groaned.

Crap, I almost forgot I have to write a report about ancient ruins, and I have to use a library book as a reference.  He sighed and rubbed his temple with his fingertips.  He didn’t particularly want to spend another minute in his high school, but he figured he had no choice.  His library in town was too far to walk to, and he didn’t have a car yet.  

Might as well get this over with.  Hayton slung his cross-body backpack over his shoulder and left the already emptied classroom.  No one was waiting for him, no one wanted to text him to make weekend plans.  In essence, no one cared about him.  Did Hayton mind?  He might have, if it wasn’t for the black and white filter that had shrouded his vision since the seventh grade.  Before then, he had friends.  Now… he had himself.  And he figured he was better off for it.

He walked the hallways heading down to the main floor where the library was.  He did his best to block out those around him, the sounds of debate teams and tutoring assignments and random gossip being whispered through the mouths of immature girls.  He kept his head down, determined to make it to the library and find a book as quickly and painlessly to his intellect as he could.

Then he heard it.  A little ting of a sound, barely audible but still there.  Hayton stopped in his tracks and listened for it once more.  tingtingting TINGTINGTINGtingTing

Hayton recognized that sound, but he wasn’t sure why.  It intrigued him greatly, and before he knew what he was doing, he was walking avidly the other direction.  As he heard the sounds more clearly, his anticipation grew and soon enough he had flung open the door to which the assailing noise was ringing from.

Something strange happened then, something that had never happened before.  He felt his chest tighten and his throat began to constrict.  And as he stared at this guy sitting at the piano, Hayton could have sworn he saw a flash of color.

Looking around, he realized he had barged into the music room.  A place he had never gone to except for his short stint in mandatory choir.  It was strange.  Hayton had heard live music a couple of times, but never anything like this.  This was passion.  This was tragedy.  This sound ringing from the keys that were being manipulated by this boy’s hands were weaving a story of great sorrow.  They were echoing his story.

Hayton looked at this boy more closely.  He didn’t seem to notice Hayton’s rude intrusion.  Or maybe he noticed but was too engrossed in his work to care.  He was wearing a red sweatshirt and blue jeans, and had long black hair that tossed and turned with his torso as he played.  He radiated a sort of fire, the kind of fire that consumes you until you care for nothing else.  Hayton looked at this boy and realized he saw himself.  Or, rather, who he wished to be.

After what seemed like hours, the music stopped.  The boy’s hands grew still, and the ringing was no more.  After an awkward silence, the boy turned around to stare at Hayton.  It was as if he was just noticing him standing there.  Hayton observed his bright green eyes that didn’t fail to replicate his obvious surprise.

“Hi… sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here.  Can I help you with something?”