Sienna

“Color” is a weird concept to me.

They say that ever since the Calamity seventy years ago the world has turned achromatic. Yet, for me, it’s always been the same–I’ve always seen in black and white. In fact, everyone below the age of seventy has always had a monochromatic vision. The sunsets and sunrises were always a blend of whites and blacks. The flowers and blossoms were always outbursts of different shades of gray. The human iris was always an aquarelle of monochromatic tonalities.

Sienna.

I remember asking myself what a color was. As a child, I was taught that green was the color of life and prosperity; red was the color of love and passion, albeit also being the color of rage and fury; blue was the color of the vast oceans and the unlimited skies. And yet again, they were all hues of grays to me. What was green, red or blue was unknown to my young, pure heart.

Sienna.

They say a color is way more than the tonality of gray of a certain object. Grandma sometimes reminisces about her life before Calamity. “But we must forget,” she insists, voice uneasy, tense “we must forget.” And when the elderly with colorful memories will pass on, we truly will forget what color was.

“Sienna”

I swam up the ocean of memories. The evening sunset–a lazy aquarelle of dark and light hues–greeted me through my window. I turned my head to see Matt looking straight at me from the sofa. Sunbeams danced on his face, shining brightly upon his dark, ruffled hair and bright, gray eyes.

“You gotta take a look at this.”

I stood up from the stool beside the window—the wooden floor creaking and whining at the action—and sank into the small, yet comforting couch. In front of us stood our squared TV, and upon us gazed the head of the government himself.

“What does he possibly want?” my tone came off rather defensive. Matt, in return, did not make any of his usual sarcastic jokes or comments which unsettled me.

“Matt..?” I said as I turned my head to look at him. He, in return, kept his gaze on the floor.

“Collective memory won’t let us forget, people,” the authority on the TV spoke leaving traces of white noise in between phrases, “our nation will always remember.”

We must forget.

“The Calamity was, perhaps, the most tragic event in the history of humanity,” he paused, “some of us might still even recall it.”

We must forget.

“The young generation must remember that day—the day the world froze in time,” his voice firm, present, “The young generation must remember the day which evolution will never forget.” It was then, when the screen started showing footage. Footage of the colossal explosion that scarred the world forever. People exclaimed in cries, begged for salvation as if they were speaking to us face to face. People with no legs—dragging themself on the floor. People with kids—or what remained of them. People clasping their hands over their eyes to protect them from the blinding flash. The blinding flash that—

“—bruised our descendants retinas forever,” the politician appeared yet again.

We must forget.

“This is unbelievable,” I let out a frustrated sigh, “how can they show this? Kids might be watching this—”

“And for the first time in seventy years,” the politician continued, “we have come with a national warning. A national lockdown is to be held until tomorrow morning, owing to an extremely vivid sunrise followed by a storm. It is prohibited to look out windows or go outside. Those looking upon the sunrise with genetically damaged retinas,” he made a pause referring to us—all of us, “those will be subject to excitotoxicity,”

“This man needs to retire,” Matt took a sip of his soda, “no such words in the dictionary.”

“In other words,” the politician continued, “those exposed to the sunrise will be subject to death due to severe over stimulation of the neurons. The one time you might see color in your life, folks, will mean secure, and imminent deat—”

The TV switched off abruptly. I swiftly turned my head around, only to see my grandma with the remote in her hands.

“Grand—”

“Enough, child, enough,” she sighed, “And you, Matthew,” she stood with her back to us now, “You may stay here, but just tonight.”

“Thank you, ma’am—”

I shoved him, silently giggling—“ma’am?” I mouthed with my head tilted. Matt smiled in return—the grays flickering in his iris.

* * *

I never knew what color was—yet now I know it can kill. Now I know that it is so powerful—so mesmerizing, perhaps—it overloads our brains. When I was a little younger, Grandma used to describe it as something fulfilling, something that takes up that empty space that we all have in our souls. She used to say color can take up every shape or form, every thought or feeling. She used to talk about it with such nostalgia, with such forlorn, that I used to be eager to meet Color, to meet that long lost friend of hers. “I still dream in color, sometimes,” she once told me, “I dream about the sea life, about the flora and fauna,” she sighed, “Oh my dear child, I dream about rainbows,” I then asked her what were those—she didn’t answer.

She is different now, more distant. Perhaps, it is because she was sixteen when Calamity had happened. Perhaps, she too is starting to forget her long lost friend.

“Grandma,” I started—cautiously, patiently—as we were standing in the dimly lit living room where Matt already nestled on the sofa, “What color were your eyes?”

Grandma stopped wiping the table, and as she straightened, she said, her voice quivering yet firm “Sienna, you keep asking me about colors, and what color this and what color that, why is that? You have never seen a color anyways,”

“Well that’s precisely why I’m asking—“

“You should forget what that is, I already told you!” she marched into the kitchen—I trailed her footsteps.

She stopped abruptly and turned to face me, “You must forget.”

“But I want to remember—”

“Remember what?” she demanded, “Remember what? You’ve never had anything to forget in the first place. I was cursed with color. Cursed, because I remember. Cursed, because when I was your age the last colorful thing I saw was your grandfathers iris and it broke my heart,” she now breathed unevenly, “And color will, someday, break your heart too.” She left the cloth she was wiping the table with and left the kitchen.

I stood in stillness until Matt switched off the living room lights.

* * *

The silence coated my tongue.

It tasted bland, dry. The insipid, black shadows danced on my ceiling. As I laid on my back—trailing the shadowy flames—the bed sheets clang on to my skin, my hair.

I turned to face my window instead, and nature welcomed my curious gaze.

There.

There was the vast field, enveloped in weeping trees, pure daisy flowers, soft, silky grass. Was the field blue, perhaps?—like the vast ocean. Were the daisies yellow?—a symbol of happiness. Were the weeping trees—so solemn yet so elegant and gracious—black?

The one time you might see color in your life, folks, will mean secure, and imminent death.

The politicians voice echoed in my head.

I should stand up and draw the curtains, I figured. I should close the window and never look through it again. I should drown in what was familiar to me—white, gray and black. They were also colors at the end of the day, I realized.

But as I stood up and approached the window, I knew it.

I knew I couldn’t draw the curtains.

Because the whites, grays and blacks were not enough. They said white was the color of purity, yet all it brought me was insanity. Gray—the color of neutrality, balance, peace. Yet all it brought me was suffocation, moments when I was hungry for air, so, so desperate—trying to catch any flavor. And black—that’s the most interesting one yet. Black is believed to be the color of grace, power, strength. Yet—

Yet something about black was different. It sounded loud, though so quiet at the same time. It had a rich taste, yet so dull. It felt so sharp, heavy—yet so light, like a feather. It felt like… It felt like—

“Sienna!”

I pivoted. Behind me, Grandma marched towards me, wobbling from side to side.

“You stupid, ignorant girl,” she reached out to draw the curtains, and I let her—I let her because for a moment, I saw a sixteen year old girl, “How many times have I told you…” her voice quivered, “How many times?”

She breathed hard, unevenly.

Black clawed at my throat.

“You are just like him,” she breathed, “Just like him—”

“I don’t care if color kills me,” a mere whisper. Brave, very brave.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she grabbed my hand but I fought her grip.

Where was my Grandma?

My sweet, loving Grandma?

“We must forget,” she reassured me, her voice wary, cautious.

Silence sat on my shoulders.

“You know, Grandma,” I started, “It won’t be color, that’ll kill me,” black tightened my chest, my lungs, “It will be this,” I waved around the room.

It will be black.

Black was the color of death.

* * *

When I woke up it was five in the morning.

Fear washed over me like a tsunami.

The sunrise—it is coming.

Fear paralyzed my limbs, my blood flow. It traveled through my veins and shackled me in place. Or was it adrenaline—excitement for what’s to come? Was it yellow flowing through my blood?

I stood up—legs unusually weak, numb—and approached the window.

Okay, there we go.

I let out a shuddering breath.

Concentrate.

My hand rose to draw the curtains—its tremors distracted me.

Come on, damn it!

I breathed with my mouth now—expanded my lungs the best I could. My heart thumped in my ears and my eyes—my vision narrowed as if I was about to hunt a prey. I clenched and unclenched my shaky hand.

I couldn’t do it, I realized.

We must forget.

I couldn’t do it.

You are just like him.

I couldn’t do it.

And it will break your heart.

Suddenly, something took over me. Perhaps it was red—my blinding rage. Perhaps it was purple—the fear of never meeting that long lost friend. Perhaps it was black.

And with a sharp intake of breath—

I drew the curtains.

* * *

“Grandma?”

At first, I didn’t see the blinding flash. At first I ignored the beams of gray light that smashed against my being. All I could see was my Grandma standing in the middle of the field—looking towards the newborn sun.

Grandma.

I jumped through the window—my skin and clothes ripping against the wooden window frame—and ran towards her.

“Grandma!” I screamed—screamed at the top of my lungs, fought against black and its shackles. My feet felt heavier than ever but I pushed through the pain—I pushed through purple, red…

I pushed through black.

The silky grass felt spiky under my bare feet; the early morning wind smashed against my face; the weeping trees rustled in agony.

“Grandma.”

There she was—right in front of me.

I stood with my back to the sun—face to face with her. I couldn’t face the sunrise yet.

I couldn’t do it.

Coward.

“Grandma..?” I panted, touched her shoulders, her wrinkled face. Yet all I could see were her eyes—hypnotized—fixed onto the projection of light. All I could hear was her troubled breathing—as well as my own. All I could feel was pain.

All I could feel was black.

“Grandm—”

“His eyes were blue,” she whispered, staring at the sunrise, “his eyes were blue,” and a single, heavy tear dropped onto the ground. Perhaps tears were blue.

“Grandma, let’s go home,” I panted, “Let’s go home and… and—”

“He was my home, Sienna,” she whispered, “Now go, and leave me to my own sorrows.”

“But—”

But what?

“Grandma..?” It was then when I noticed that Grandma was no longer here. Yes, she was standing, her piercing gaze fixed on the sunrise—yet she was not here.

I took a step back. And another. And another.

Grandma.

And then I felt it.

Something tugging at me. Whining—calling my name. Something pulling on my clothes, my arms, something begging me to take a look—to take a peek.

I looked at the world around me—a gray scale of insanity, suffocation and death. It was now or never, I said to myself, chest rising in arrhythmical movements. Now or never I chanted—hands and fingers numb.

Now or nev—

I pivoted so swiftly I almost lost balance.

The light shone at me with such force, such fury it blinded me, scarred me. My eyelids braced my eyes yet I forced myself to look—forced myself to see through the dazzling sunrise.

And then…

And then I saw it.

Color.

At first, I saw my feet. I looked down, and as I wiggled my toes, I saw, what seemed like a weird shade of white. That can’t be color.

I must be hallucinating.

But then I saw the now silky grass below them. Color hit my eyes so intensely I felt it pierce my pupil and shatter against my skull. That—that was the color of life. Green. It hit my head with such force that I felt it’s sharp blow in my temples, my forehead. But I didn’t mind. I looked forward. The daisies were the color of purity, and indeed of happiness. Some of them were of an intense tint I couldn’t figure out. For me, it was the color of sweetness, the color of nurture and calm.

“Remember kids, flowers are usually pink, red, purple or even blue,” my teachers voice resonated somewhere in my head. Perhaps these daisies were one of these colors.

I dared to look upper. In front of me stood the weeping trees. They were also the color of life—yet some weeping trees were glazed with passion and spice, some with happiness and purity, some with sweetness and calm.

And then…

And then I looked at the sunrise.

The pigments stabbed my being. The oil painting was a mix of every color—every feeling—I could think of. It was a mixture of passion and love and fear and anger and excitement… It coated my tongue in every flavor—spicy, sweet, sour, savory… It sounded like every song I’ve ever heard and every word I’ve ever pronounced. It’s aroma was like every perfume I’ve ever sensed. It felt like a punch, a blow in the stomach, yet also like a gentle touch, a breeze.

Was it a rainbow—what I was seeing?

My head contracted with such strength that I fell onto my knees—the lively, green, grass welcoming me like a pillow.

Sienna.

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear.

Sienna.

I couldn’t smell or taste.

Sienna.

I couldn’t feel.

“Sienna!”

A familiar figure dropped on his knees in front of me, with his back to the sunrise. I felt the graze of his hands, his fingers.

Or was it Color?

“Sienna,” the sound reverberated against the walls in my head. I forced to look at the source of the sound. Matt knelt in front of me cupping my face. I didn’t hear his muffled words. Didn’t feel his touch. But his eyes… His eyes—

“Your eyes are the color of life, Matt,” I smiled and a single, bulbous tear felt onto the ground, “They are green.” I couldn’t hear his response. I could only wander in his forest for eyes.

“What color are my eyes?” I asked.

“I… Sienna I—”

“What color are they?”

He heaved and panted, “I… I don’t know I—”

“What color, Matthew? The color of life, of the oceans, of the flowers… Or, perhaps, the color of love or joy? Or maybe death? What color?”

“I…” his eyes darted all over my face, “They are all of those things; you are life, love, joy… I don’t know Sienna,” a single tear escaped his eyes, “They are you,” he breathed, “They are Sienna.”

My eyes were sienna.

I breathed.

And never saw again.

* * *

“I would like to file a patent.”

“Name?”

“Matthew Solace.”

“Residence?”

“Weeping Willow Hill 11.”

“Invention?”

“A new color.”

The woman’s eyes at the desk shot into mine. She lowered her office glasses and swam in my green eyes. There were no words needed to describe her honest disdain.

“I want to patent a new color,” I repeated, ignoring the skeptical looks that shot in my direction from nearby listeners.

The woman took a deep breath and put her glasses in place, “People be filing patents for anything nowadays,” the sound of her keyboard filled the office.

“Name of the color?”

“Sienna.”