In that place, there was no color.
The robes they wore were white. The walls were white. The food was bland and had all the vibrancy of dried straw. Even the hair of one of the girls was white, like the place had bled her dry of any shade that might have been there before.
When he was younger, Twelve had lived his life bathed in color. Everywhere he looked and in everything he heard, there was brightness and beauty and all manners of vivid sheen. But when he was brought to the institution, it had been sucked away as if the color had been poison and his life a wound.
Even if the surroundings were colorless, Twelve had thought he could at least take solace in the voices, but they were the worst of all- when the adults spoke, their voices were just like the words they delivered: pitch black.
Despite each room being white as stripped bone, soon everything became black. Everything was tarnished by despair. And in this dark world full of dark words and dark people, there were only two things that retained their color.
One was the sun, a pale yellow; and one was the voice of a boy that burned red like fire. He was called Nine.
Red voices were uncommon. They came from people who were angry, as if their blood boiled with such intensity that the heat worked its way into the very words they spoke. On the outside, the one called Nine did not seem fiery or angry. If anything, it was the opposite- he was cold with wintry eyes and seemed to inject ice into everything he did. Still, Twelve took comfort in the red-voiced boy and followed him about as faithfully as a disciple.
It did not go unnoticed.
"You're Twelve."
The first words Nine spoke to him were curt and sharp, but Twelve could see the scarlet laced between them and was not afraid.
"Yeah, I am. You're Nine. I like your voice. It's red, you know."
Nine seemed caught off guard by that. "Voices don't have color."
"They do to me."
"Synesthesia?" Twelve nodded, and the taller boy tried to disguise his interest with a sour expression.
"Why do you keep following me?"
Twelve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Because I like you. I like the color red. I want to be friends."
Nine seemed to bristle at that, and said nothing in reply. Twelve didn't mind. "Want to play chess with me?"
When Nine didn't answer, Twelve grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward one of the tables. Nine's body stiffened and he wore a frown, but when he sat before the board, he still reached out to move the first pawn.
It was risky to get close with anyone in that place. Sometimes when the needles went into their veins the breath went out of their lungs, and many died. Still, as the numbers dwindled, Nine and Twelve remained.
The only other child they ever played with was the white-haired girl. She was called Five. Twelve didn't like her. Her voice was a murky mixture of purple and green, and it stewed in the air like sewage long after she spoke. Still, she was good at chess and had a talent for surviving injections, and that was the only criteria for friendship at the institution.
It was nearly dawn on the day that Nine crept over to Twelve's bed while he slept. When he spoke his name to wake him, the red of his voice splashed against the darkness with an urgency like never before. Even when half in the realm of sleep, Twelve knew immediately that something was wrong.
"Nine, what-"
"I'm going to die." The words were sudden and struck Twelve with a crack of pain. It was something he had dreaded for so long that the news put him in a violent daze.
"Why? How do you know?"
"I had a headache at dinner." They both knew what that meant. Whenever any of the children had complained of pain in their heads, it was usually only a few days before their beds were stripped of sheets and were never filled again.
"It already happened to Five," he said. "She told me. We played hide-and-seek yesterday, and when I found her she was crying. They've been giving us both a lot of shots. We're going to die."
Twelve began to shake. He couldn't lose that bright red voice. He couldn't lose his friend. He was all he had.
Nine looked out the frosted glass of the window at the rising sun, so clouded and pale it was like a silver oyster.
"I hope the day is warm," he said in a distant voice. "I hope the sun shines and that it dazzles my eyes."
He's given up, Twelve realized. The anger and passion that fueled his voice had faded, and it turned to a deep burgundy. Twelve refused to accept any of it, and his mind churned like clockwork until it formed a desperate plan.
"I won't let you die." He donned a tight smile, his voice calm and sincere.
Nine looked up hopelessly. "There's nothing we can do."
"Yes there is," Twelve insisted. "We can escape."