All My Colors

Chapter III - Hell On Earth

Through two chapters, reader, you may have noticed that I seem to be a fairly intelligent person; well, that is true, for the most part at least. Blaze, however, doesn't see me that way. Mainly because she's never seen this side of me... The side that thinks about everything in such detail and turns past experiences into life-long lessons... She might actually like me if she saw me this way. But, the only side she knows is awkward and flawed; it can't seem to function with her being present, and yet it needs her. I don't know why, but I've always been that way around her. I think the term she uses for it is naïve. Childish. She probably calls me that three times a day, at least. That should tell ya' a lot about what she thinks of me, and why we can never be. Every time that word escapes her lips, I take it like a scold. I'm nothing more than a disobedient puppy to her, and she's always ready with a spray-bottle of water.

While I've mentioned I would hate to be in Blaze's shoes, there is no denying that she is very good at what she does. She is passionate about it, like I am with art. Even though she's only been doing it for a few years, she's already done multiple front-page articles for the New York Times. The ones above her say they like her 'direct and fiery tone'. Sounds about right. She's talked about how she wants to also start writing novels and maybe even a documentary or something along those lines. That would be cool. But, God knows we wouldn't be able to live if both of us had jobs that only pay off some of the time. Trust me, she never fails to remind me about that aspect of my occupation.

I excuse myself from the room after a game or two of pool to refill my drink. Ah, sweet tea... It's a delicacy in the south. Not so much up here. When you eat out in Spartanburg, if you ask for tea, that's what you get. In New York, they look at you sideways when you say sweetened, and bring you several packs of sugar to mix into your iced tea. It's just not the same. That's why I always make my own at home; it tastes better and, hell, it's cheaper. Honestly, I'm not particularly proud of my heritage, but I think we got that one right.

After a while, and a few air hockey tournaments after Tails joined us, I got bored of doing unproductive things. I walk back across my apartment, and into the art room, thinking that I have a pretty nice idea. I take my sketch pad and stool back over to the window, and begin with a long swooping line across the top of the page.

I look down, hearing sirens, to see a black convertible being chased by several police cars. In the backseat, I'm not sure, but I think that looks like several bags of cocaine. The driver is a brown mongoose with dark shades on, speeding through the streets with his middle finger to the sky. Damn, the world's gone to hell. You can't turn on the news channel without hearing something about a rape or homicide or drug heist. If there really is a God, I'm not sure why he hasn't blown this place to pieces yet.

My mom used to tell me that things like this just didn't happen when she was growing up. And, in part, I think that's true. I think things like this happened, but it just wasn't so publicized like it is today. Social media will be the end of the world, and I hope I'm not the only one who knows it. Because of the media today, everything gets covered and shared with the public. Because of that, it gives these insane criminals more ideas. Because of that, the crimes multiply, and the cycle repeats. Sooner or later, there's going to be more crazy assholes than the nut-houses can hold. Or, well... That's my philosophy, at least.

In fact, I think that Blaze is working on a story right now about some mass-murderer guy who was just recently caught in some underground lair of his in the middle of nowhere with several dead bodies, most of them girls, most of them without any clothes on. I don't know why some people are like that... Wanna' go around and kill and abuse everyone they see. Life is too precious to waste, on either end. Seriously, why can't everyone just learn to love each other? Why can't we get along? Is there an unwritten rule somewhere that forbids people to coexist? Holding hands takes a lot less energy than holding a grudge. Or holding a gun, for that matter. I know I sound a lot like Pops right about now, but that's more than okay.

One of my more recent paintings was actually a lot like that... It was a rather large interpretation of the city of New York, all blown-up and 3-D-like. It was full of bright colors and figures hugging one another... And hearts of various sizes scattered all around. Well, basically, the opposite of what this place is actually like. Obviously, there wasn't much of a story to go with it, or even a title, but at the bottom in black writing, I wrote: "Make Love... Not War.". I think I got around three hundred bucks for the piece.

A bunch of people question why someone would pay that much for a painting. Really, it's only for those who can see past the canvas. When you buy a piece of art, you also take home a little piece of the artist's soul. His vision. That makes it worth it.

Looking at my half-covered page now, I start having second thoughts about it. It's well-sketched... But I don't think I could get into it like usual. It's gotta' be something I can think about... Something that has meaning. This doesn't cut it, so I crumple up the paper, and toss it in the trash can as I walk into the living room. That's the good thing about art: you don't have to get it right the first time.

You would think that seeing Blaze sitting on the couch would surprise me, but she does come home fairly early some days. I think that once you finish your assignment, you're done until they give you a new one, or something like that.

"Easy day?" I ask.

She hardly looked up from her book, "No. Just quick."

I've played this game before. She must still be frustrated with me, for whatever reason. I really would like to being up Miss Kay, maybe ask about her, but I'd probably just get rejected. Still, I sit next to her, and attempt conversation.

"How is your mother?"

She glances at me, and closes her novel, turning to face me. "Fine."

Oh, shit... I'm sweating; I feel like I have a lump in my throat and my heart feels like it's practicing for a marathon. I always get this way around her! Just... Why? What is it about her that makes me go to pieces? Why can't I say anything? Finally, I sigh. "Do you wanna' talk about it over dinner? I can make some spaghetti or something."

I can tell she's down. I don't know if she's heard anything from the doctors, but if she has, it wasn't good. She just stares at the floor, taking a long time to answer. She's eating away at herself on the inside... I don't know why she won't express her feelings... Let it all out, you know. She needs someone, but everywhere she looks there are only mirrors. And then there's me... Who sees this, and can't do anything about it. Well, I can, but I'm too selfish to try. It pains me just as much as her. I wish she would just...

"I don't really feel like talking." She finally says, "But spaghetti sounds nice." I don't see it, but I know her face is neutral as she stands up, and walks towards the common room.

Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed the new chappy!:3

Listen, I have a new friend on here!:D Her pen name is SolsticeReid, and she's just now starting out publishing her stories to fanfiction. It'd be really coolio and greatly appreciated if you guys would check her out!;)

Thanks for reading! Love you all!