The Colours of The Sun

By Shanthanu Venugopal

Far in the distance, beyond the concrete and metal husks of the city there was an old crooked road. The road bent itself in strange ways, twisting and turning against the ground, leading any traveler to an old crooked home. Its frame was oak, pale and weary. The wood creaked as feet trampled across the floorboards, small latches groaned with cries of age, rust spread like disease through the corners of the home. Yet, if one listened closely, you could hear the sound of a girl. She danced and played, drew and painted.

Colors, red, orange and yellow, splashed against the walls of the old house as she tried to draw sunlight into its dark crevices. The windows had been barred up and it was not often that she would see the outside. Yet she peered out from the cracks trying to catch just a glimpse. She imagined it was beautiful.

She was startled by the sound of creaking from upstairs as the men marched down. They clambered into the hall and sat at the table. The girl hurried to find the meal she had prepared for them the night before. She moved gently, careful not make any noise. She grabbed bowls, plates, and cutlery and placed them down on the table. She smiled. Bright and cheerful as the men ignored her and began to devour their meal. Drops of soups and pieces of meat fell to the floor. She watched them with a silent rage. One of them took notice, and looked deep into her eyes.

He always knew. He knew that behind the smile and bright colours of her paintings that their was a dark breeze beginning to shift. The man stood, and then so did the others. As they left the girl's smiled waned and wilted till only the coldness of her eyes remained.

Her pain could be felt by the trees, her cries heard by all the woodland creatures, and her innocence was lost to the morning air.

That night, as with all the nights before, she licked her wounds. She gathered the remnants of the meal, and prepared for her escape. She stared at the barred windows and understood that all that stood in her way was wood. Nothing more. She stood at the foot of the stairwell and could hear the loud snores of the men above her. She would not bare it much longer.

That night, she painted her final piece, and covered the walls with red, orange, and yellow. She painted the roof, the tiles of the bathroom, every piece of cutlery, and then she dared to them. She moved swiftly, gracefully, and garnished the face of every man with her colours. She walked down the stairs, her heart beating rapidly, thumping with fury, fear and the thrill of freedom.

With her nails she gripped the oak wood and pulled against the barred windows. With each effort the light of day seeped into the room. The colours began to glow, the house was now alight with the shades of the glorious sun. At last the bars gave away, and the girl saw her reflection in the clear glass of the window. Her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, smiling, but her eyes were cold. The realization hit her in the stomach and she felt herself being pulled back.

The men awoke, screaming and panting as they rushed down the stairs. She heard them, but she could not turn away from her reflection. She felt their hands grab her, she felt the whiplash as they pulled her by the hair but she could not turn away from her reflection. There was nothing behind her eyes, there had once been but they had taken it.

She felt the cold steel of a knife against her throat, and then howls of the men ringing in her ear. It would not end this way. She would not let it. The girl bit into the man's hand as the knife fell to the floor. He reeled back colliding into the others.

She ran to the window but stopped just before her parting. She turned to the men and smiled, just as she had done before, but now her eyes gleamed as well. The men stood, paralyzed by the colours that covered her. Red, orange, and yellow, the colours of the sun shined brilliantly as she melded into them. They would never see her again. But now, each time they looked at their home they would now only be reminded of her. Her joy, her anger, her triumph, her light. They would know that could not take more from her, for she had already given them all she could.

The looked at their faces, the walls, the roof, the floor. Red. Orange. Yellow. The colours of the sun now covered the old crooked home.

By Shanthanu Venugopal