Linda doesn't like colors.
It's ironic considering she is an artist, but that's a fact. She likes her monochrome sketches of portraits and landscapes—all pure black and white with hints of dark and light grey somewhere in the middle. There's no need for adding in pesky hints of other colors that could detract from her supposed masterpieces and she doesn't need to beg Roger for paints, colored pencils, or the like. It's a fair system and her work benefits as she continues to sketch day in and day out.
Linda is an artist, but she doesn't like colors.
Linda doesn't like colors, but she likes how colors complement people.
She sometimes watches the other kids at the orphanage. There are some who dress in disturbingly gloomy, somber clothing (kids she takes special care to avoid), which practically oozes melancholy and suffering. These are the kids with the troubled pasts that could be easily discernible like the early drafts of a sketch that even the best erasers can't hide. She eyes the harsh outlines of these children while her fingers itch for the feel of her pencil so she can capture their looks of haunted misery and reticence. These are the children who stand at the forefront of her nightmares and linger at the edges of her sketchbook like dying shadows too afraid to enter into the light.
Others, children who are too young to feel the effects of the past or who are too far gone in their haste to run away from their problems, wear ostentatiously bright clothing—ones that burn the eyes with the sheer intensity of the fabric. It's odd, she thinks, to see such bright hues parade about within the confines of the orphanage, but she can't help but smile. If pictures could speak a thousand words, the clothes these children wear would practically scream at the top of their lungs an epic's worth of emotion and then some. The brightness attracts all (well, most) of the population to these social butterflies like moths to a flame. However, Linda can't stand to be in the presence of such brightness (she still doesn't like colors and thus, she avoids these children). Instead, she brings the pencil in communion with her paper. The bright colors are muted to monochrome whenever she chooses to draw them. In her sketchbook, the children prance about like mischievous fairies ready to abduct an earthen child in a wild collage of mismatched faces peering with joyous grins that are stretched too wide.
And there are the children who clever enough to know that there is an artist (who hates colors) in their midst. Their styles are stable and welcoming. The children like to wear colors that please the eyes, no matter what the combination is. Hues of warmth and serenity greet her eye and for once, just this once, maybe Linda wants to grab a brush and the nearest can of paint just so she can capture the colors. The colors blend evenly together, so much so that if Linda were to forget that they were human, she would have supposed that they were one with the scenery. At that, she would have to laugh, because really, were they even human? Of all the groups, she likes to watch these children the most. They are the ones with the troubled pasts, but they are also the ones that have the drive to move forward and make a better life for the future. They might not be as bold as the gloom or as bright as the naïve and the scarred, but they move forward. These are the children who usually take the foreground of her portraits; the ones she usually asks to let her sketch them. These are the children she likes the most.
Linda is a people watcher, but she doesn't like people.
Linda doesn't like to hate, but she doesn't like (she hates, hates, hates) how there are some colors that don't complement some people.
There's a blond boy with too much dark in his heart, too much dark on his sleeve, and too much darkness coloring his mind. Linda believes that this color is called 'black'. The boy with the blond hair begs to differ. He says in his tone of voice that is telling of his high intelligence and his need to rise above the rest that black is not a color. Scientifically speaking, he says (he sneers), that black is merely the absence of light. Even some shades of black are still reflecting some light. He points out (because how dare she think that she knows more than the cursed number two) how artists are merely subjective and that the true answer would be always science.
He says this all while looking down at her.
And maybe Linda sees how black fits the boy perfectly. The bold outline, the gloom that accompanies him from being too cooped up in one place for too long…it all fits. However, Linda is an artist. Even though she hates colors, she still has an eye—an uncanny one at that—for detail. She watches and she observes the little blond boy clad in black and she understands (or maybe she fools herself into thinking she does).
In small corners that reek of neglect, he clutches a new book to read—a new weapon against his rival—in one hand, a rosary in another. Linda is an artist; she of all people can tell the differences between similar looking hues. She sees the red that gleams from the blond's blue eyes, the black that fits his body like a glove, the gleaming metallic light that emits from the crucifix that hangs from his neck. Even his hair, a bright beacon of brightness amidst the chaos of what makes him…him. The colors seemed to simultaneously clash and compliment. It's a mess and Linda has learned how to deal with those (disused early sketches with hints of what could have been only to be dashed away with the tip of her eraser). It's him she can't seem to fix.
Naturally, she asks the blond boy clothed in the dark to sit still one day. He refuses to comply.
Linda doesn't mind. She merely tells him (from an artist's perspective, of course) that black is an amalgamation of all colors. He looks at her, equal parts confusion and condescension before he waves her off. Linda wants to tell him that he's not bereft of any defining characteristics that could push him to be number one; he has plenty of them in spades. In fact, she wants to say that it's good to be a compilation of differing hues rather than just an absence of light.
She chooses to say nothing.
.
.
.
There's another boy. Whereas the blond clad in darkness is bold and brash and a messy compilation of dark colors not afraid to attack, this boy wears brightness like a shield. The color, a warning for people not to approach him, is his only defining characteristic. White (immaculate, meticulous, and cold) dominates this little boy, almost as if all the other colors avoid him like the plague (the bright hue, a taunt to those who vie for his position and status). Like the toys he plays and the puzzles he solves, it's all clear cut and pristine. There's no need for cumbersome hues—a spectrum of radiance—to detract from his fulfilling an objective.
Linda admires that aspect of him, at least.
There's something inhuman about him, but Linda knows enough tact not to say that to his face. Since her previous encounter with the other boy, she decides to draw him without asking. There's no harm in just sketching and she's technically not doing anything wrong. So, one day, she sits at a discreet little corner and watches the little boy wearing that bright color. Only, as she methodically sketches him, she discovers that it's not the brightness that makes this one particular stand out, it's that the main color that dominates his body is in stark contrast to everything. He shines and he glows…but at the same time, he's dim and faint (like the work of a pencil nub finally outliving its usefulness). By the time Linda looks down from her scrutiny, she realizes that her sketch is more of a hint of an idea rather than a finished drawing (he's one flick of the pencil away from being erased).
Linda wishes to confront him, perhaps ask why he has decided to wear just one color day in and day out, but she shies away. Of all the orphans stuck in the orphanage, it is he alone who could match up to the brilliance of their benefactor. Even though he's faint, a distant flare of light, he outshines the rest of their kind. Linda can't bear to be in his presence for too long. Like a black hole (because surely, that's what he is), he is a dying star, once so bright, so huge, that he burns and he burns, and when he ceases to burn…he contracts and compacts until the gravity of who he is and what he will be brings everyone to him. Then, he swallows and absorbs everyone's presence (or could it be he feeds off everyone's intelligence?). He leeches off their failures and fuels his arrogance. He is no whiter than just a dying ray of light.
So, it's a bit of surprise when the bright little boy speaks up as soon as she swallows down bile at the sight of her barely there drawing. His words are carefully measured and controlled, as if he knows that she is ready to bolt. Like the mechanical robots that he is currently piecing together, his movements are clinical and detached. As he speaks, he neither meets her gaze nor attempts to speak above a low murmur. It is only out of fear that Linda moves from her chosen corner so that she could hear the bright boy speak.
Clinically, he asks if she is open to the idea of him looking at her sketch. He places his robot on top of a tower built on dice and watches as the robot's eyes seem to flash different colors in glee. It is only during this brief interlude that Linda realizes that the bright little boy isn't asking—it's a demand.
Linda doesn't know how to react. With the blond in darkness, her quips came easy, if a bit dull and slower on the uptake. With the bright little boy, Linda falters and just stares down at the tower of dice and the lone robot. On impulse, she gingerly hands her sketchbook to him, not really knowing how he will react.
His blank stare (a black, black, black hole) bores holes into the paper (crisp and white and creamy). He doesn't say a word; he just takes in the contents of his portrait. The lines are rushed, faint, and near indiscernible from the grain of the paper. For a second, Linda could feel the blood rush to her face, which shouldn't have happened in the first place. He may have been at the top, but she could care less of what this bright little boy thought and—
He hands the sketchbook back to her and gives her a slight nod. This is the most he has ever done for her—and probably the most he will ever do. Belatedly, Linda thoughtlessly blurts out the one question in her mind, do you like the color white?
He shrugs—a careless, yet dismissive action.
Because, you know, white is like the combination of all the colors, especially if one were to look at colors along the spectrum of light. However, some people, kind of like me, argue that it's more of a shade instead of a color and—
Linda is rambling.
The bright little boy has returned to his ministrations concerning his robots and there is nothing Linda can say or do that will get him out of his flow. Like recently fallen snowflakes (so white, so bright, so detailed), their spark of an interaction seemed to glow brightly for the few precious seconds it was allowed to live until time had managed to damage the moment. It was nothing more than a memory that was easily wiped off and forgotten.
(Linda thinks that she should have become a poet because she'll be damned to realize that she's using colors as her main motifs).
And just like that, Linda decides to leave once more and shake off the feeling that maybe she should make the shadows surrounding the bright little boy a little darker, perhaps the eyes a shade bolder…because surely, he's not so pure, not so bright as he leads others to believe.
.
.
.
He is just as abnormal as the others, if not more so.
Of the three, Linda feels like she is… closer to this one than the others. He smiles freely (bright white and blinding), wears his heart on his sleeve (dark, but not so dark like his companion), and his personality warms others (shades of sunset gold and rustic burgundy). He's in the middle of their makeshift gradient of colors, but he's stuck at the bottom due to lackluster intelligence and his lack for wanting more. Not many of the children look up to him, heck, not many look up to the top two achievers, but he's easily the most liked of the elite trio.
He's warm and friendly, neither manipulative nor cunning—but that's what Linda wants to believe. In this orphanage of greys and blacks and rarely-there-whites, none of the residents appear to be who they really are. Linda doesn't like this environment, but she understands (maybe) why all these orphans are who they are. Just like the faded lines in her sketchbook—the lines that could have been one thing, but chose to be another—all changes are erased and blotted out with aid from other interfering lines or shading. So maybe, that's why Linda procrastinates in sketching the warm and friendly boy.
Perhaps, she thinks to herself, if he tilts his head this way or that, he could disturb her process and that wouldn't do at all. (If she manages to gain the courage to finally sketch him).
(She chooses to ignore that she has already witnessed the blond boy in darkness pace up and down with a snarl on his face, or how the bright little boy is always fiddling with his robots).
There's something deeper (something that looks suspiciously neon pink in artfully designed hearts and hastily scrawled ex's and oh's) at work here, but she also chooses to ignore that as well. If she were one of the students inclined towards the medical sciences, she would have immediately deduced that her heart rate immediately quickened, her senses sharpened, and she was suddenly so aware of when he was around. Being a child of the arts, all she knew was that she saw everything in a dusty haze of adoration and the childish feeling of being on the cusp of something more. If that dusty haze was colored in hues of dusky pinks and reds, well…no one had to actually know that, right?
So, it was a surprise when he, out of the blue (darkening skies, slight drizzle, a boring afternoon), spoke to her.
He has nice blue (azure? Prussian? periwinkle?) eyes and his hair is just the right shade of golden brown. It's an unusual combination, dark hair with strikingly clear eyes, but it's all okay because she's swooning over the unfinished sketch in her book and he's talking—
He's talking.
Linda notices that his smile is warm and comforting, much like his clothing. He's wearing a deep red (it's ragged and slightly brown, but all the same, it suits him) sweater with black horizontal stripes while faded jeans adorn his legs. It shouldn't have been captivating, but it is. And then, Linda realizes that he has just asked a question and she hasn't replied yet. She simply gives a nod and points to an area nearest natural sunlight because she fears that unintelligible stammering will scare him away.
His smile is grateful at her acquiescence and like an infectious disease, his smile had entrapped Linda.
She finds herself smiling.
Unlike her previous portraits, Linda finds herself lazily drawing in her sketchbook—she's relaxed and finds herself memorizing every detail in his face (slightly full cheeks and mischievous eyes). Instead of hurriedly sketching for fear of taking too much time or going as slow as possible so she can record every detail, she finds herself going at a steady pace. There was no rush, no need for hesitance. It was just her, the boy, and her sketchbook.
All too soon, she finishes her drawing.
She thinks the picture is plain.
There's too much white (she doesn't want to be reminded of that bright little boy) space and shading (and she definitely does not want to think of the dark blond) could only do so much. Regret fills her as she tries to remember why she hadn't thought of borrowing someone's secondhand colored pencils or watercolor paints. Shamefaced, she's about to ask the boy if he would like to wait until later when she has the supplies so she can add a dash of color, but he has already noticed her still fingers and resigned nature.
Before she could stop him, the boy bounds to her side and hovers over her shoulder. A bright shade of pink coats her cheeks as she helplessly watched the boy take her sketchbook away from her. Linda looks away, afraid for the first time of the upcoming critique.
He's smiling and laughing and congratulating her on her technique and points excitedly at the sketch as if he wants the entire world to look at her masterpiece—her ultimate magnum opus. His eyes sober up, a serious look lining his features. If Linda retained the ability to speak, she would have described how much charming he looked when he seemed so serious and yet so playful at the same time.
He asks if he could keep this.
Dumbly, Linda nods.
Carefully, the boy rips the page out of the book, mindful of the perforated pages. He handles the paper gently, as if it were a priceless artifact. He gives her a wave before he dashes out of the room, presumably going after his best friend to show him the drawing.
Linda touches her face.
It continues to burn.
That was the first and last time someone asked that from her.
Above all else, Linda likes blank slates, new sheets of paper.
There's something akin to that of an accomplishment as she finally reaches the end of her sketchbook. There's a sense of elation when she flips the page over and see the muddy brown cardboard signaling the end. Like most things in life, they need to get replaced.
Nothing can replace those three boys.
One by one, like the erasers on cheap pencils, they leave.
Linda doesn't care about that.
She has her colors now.