Chapter 5: Crayons and Colors

Pink awoke early from a dreamless sleep. It was still dark. But something inside her told her that it wouldn't be for much longer. Dawn was coming and she needed to see it.

She slid out of her temporary bed and stepped to the door of her room. The small window of the room in which she was staying faced north, so it was unable to assist her with her mission. Which meant she needed to find a vantage point that could.

The hallways were still as empty as they were earlier in the night so it was with little trouble that Pink was able to soon find the floor's stairwell. She was still half asleep as she walked, so it was surprising that she made her way so easily. It was almost as if she was being led by instinct.

Instinct.

It's a scientific word for something that science can't fully explain. It's a label given to the unanswerable 'how' of how someone or something with no memory of an event or action is able to recall perfectly what needs to be done.

Pink salmon are led by instinct away from their ocean home up into rivers to return to their spawning grounds. Pink flamingos instinctively group together for protection, each individual becoming connected and part of a greater whole.

And so too the Pink Kid found herself drawn along by an invisible force. Finding the right turns and steps that eventually led her to the hospital roof balcony. It was cold, her thin white cotton dress with exposed arms and legs offering virtually no protection against the gusting wind. But the girl barely noticed. Her mind lost in a daze, her actions all subconsciously driven. All she knew is she needed to be here. At this very moment, at this very time, it was her duty to stand vigil before the dawn.

She stepped out and up to the very edge of the guardrail of the balcony she had arrived at, turning and facing herself towards the dark eastern horizon. She watched and waited. Feeling the moment of dawn come closer and closer. Watching the horizon begin to lighten.

The twilight sky began to first turn orange at the lip of the distant horizon. Then slowly orange and yellow glows began to skirt up and along into the sky, slowly darkening into a glowering red. As minutes passed the sky above began to slowly fade from black to blue till finally the tip of the sun stretched itself over the horizon, framed by an angry red sky.

The roof top observer watched till the sun was too high and bright to gaze at anymore, and turned away. Strawberry eyebrows set in a frown.

It was wrong. Completely. Worryingly so.

She opened the door to the stairwell again and scampered quickly back down the stairs. Her small bare feet not even noticing the coldness of the concrete stairs beneath them, hurrying to her room. There was an emotion welling up inside her chest, though it was hard to put a name to what the emotion was.

It was a strange feeling that she should be in another place; somewhere other than here. And she felt if she didn't release the growing emotion soon she would burst.

The young girl moved quickly to the mat upon the tiled floor of the room that was not hers and sat herself down, pulling a blank piece of paper from the pile that had been left there and once again took the box of crayons into her hands.

The sunrise she had seen was wrong. The Yellow was trying too hard and the Orange was awkwardly trying to assist, but unsure of its role. While the Red was angry and lashing out at the sky.

A red crayon found its way into her hand and she was soon energetically rubbing it against the paper before her, smudging colour across the blank white slate. It was instinct again that guided her every move. Her left hand clenched tight around the red wax cylinder. Pink pressed down harder and harder with each pass along the paper, trying to get the tool to do what she felt it should be doing. Pass after pass it tore across the paper. Until finally the force was too great for the simple child's plaything and it snapped in two.

But the girl barely noticed, her hand discarding the broken instrument and reaching for another from the cardboard container. This time orange found its way into her small hand.

More etching on the paper occurred. Sharp hard lines being driven into the paper. But all too soon the inferior colouring item succumbed to the force it was being put under and orange too became a snapped and broken crayon beside the red.

The pink crayon within the box was the last that the Kid reached for. By this time the growing emotion within her now all-consuming. The pink crayon did not even make it to the paper before it was snapped in two. Pink simply holding it between her two hands and then applying enough force to divide it neatly into two pieces. Then two became four. And four became eight. And carefully each piece of pink was placed down on the tiled floor and then crushed under palm.

She was alone in the room, so no one bore witness to her actions. To the girl sitting cross-legged on the mat, carefully crushing the pink substance before her into a powder. Her colouring had suddenly moved on from basic scribbling into something else. Something much more spiritual.

Sand painting was known to many native cultures of Earth, often being performed as an important, sacred ceremonial act. And it was now Pink found herself engaged in a simular method of ancient colouring, scooping into her hands the fine pink powder that now covered the once white tiles.

With calmness, feeling herself connected to something greater than herself much like the instinctual flocking pink flamingos, the pink haired girl brought her cupped hands to her mouth and, taking a deep breath, blew.

Her breath caught the pink powder in her hands and sent it dancing and scattering over the paper before her of smudged reds and oranges.

The breath turned to a sigh as the last pink powdered particle fell from the air, the feeling of need leaving Pink. She was done. Whatever her duty was it was now fulfilled.

She stood from the mat, her white cotton dress and arms smeared with the colourful reminisce of crayons that gave all they could, and stepped to the bed that wasn't hers. Suddenly very tired.

The sheets were still as cold and stiff as they always were but they would do their job. And exhausted Pink closed her eyes as she settled amongst them, falling back to the dreamless sleep she had awoken from before.

It would be later that Nurse Elliott entered the room to check on Pink. And would find what appeared to be a chaotic mess of broken and smashed crayons scattered all over the floor.

It would be then when she moved to clean up the mess, stepping further into the room, that she would spot the piece of paper at the heart of the floor bound chaos.

A lump would form in her throat and her eyes would first dart to the sleeping child nestled within the crayon stained sheets of the hospital bed, then back to the picture on the floor. The image on the paper was almost like a photograph. Scarcely resembling anything that could have been drawn, let alone with crayons.

But the nurse could tell it wasn't a photograph, as the picture before her was textured. A photograph would be flat and glossy, while this image was composed of rising and falling contours of pink crayon particles. All swirling along and across the page from a central sliver in the centre of the page.

It was a sunrise. Molded out of pink crayon instead of light but equally as beautiful. In fact, it was somewhat scary how beautiful it was. As crayon should never be able to produce something like this. Not in a million years.

It was eggs she smelt. Eggs and toast, definitely. The smell of warming butter melting into the crisp pours of toasted bread roused Pink from her exhaustion fuelled slumber. She opened her eyes tiredly, blinking a few times to fully awaken the blue centred orbs, and stretched. She noticed sunlight was pouring through the window of her room. So much so that Pink wondered to herself exactly how long she had been sleeping.

Three days, she reminded herself. When she had first arrived here she had slept for three days. Where had she been before that? Doctor Anderson said she had been found laying out in the street. A passer by had discovered her and called someone to take her to this place of the lost. But Pink remembered nothing of that. And nothing before it. It was as if she had been asleep her whole life. Waking up for the first time just yesterday.

She looked again at the sunlight pouring into her room, trying to judge the time. How did she know she hadn't slept for yet another three days? Or more?

'Will you visit me again? Tomorrow? Before I go home.' A voice inside her head repeated. Reminding. It was the voice of the boy she had met the previous night. Reminding her of a promise she had made.

Pink's eyes again looked at the sunlight streaming into her room, unsure of the time, but an increasingly worried feeling had taken seed in the pit of her stomach, and was currently growing branches of doubt and concern up through her body. She had only one friend in the entire world, here and now, and maybe she had just inadvertently broken a promise to him. Missed his leaving and now he was lost to her like all her other memories.

Pink was out of bed in moments, her bare feet sending her quickly skipping through the room as soon as they made contact with the cold white tiles of the floor. She had already lost so much, she did not want to lose the only friend she could remember. She had to find Anthony.

But before she could get to the door a voice caught her attention.

"Good morning Pink." said the now familiar voice of Doctor Anderson. "Is everything alright? Are you perhaps needing to go to the toilet? I'll get one of the nurses to take you."

The pink haired girl froze just feet from the door, turning about wide-eyed. In her haste she hadn't even noticed she wasn't alone. There, sitting in the corner of her room, a table holding a tray of food next to him, was Doctor Anderson. Watching her as intently as he always did.

"Doctor Anderson." Pink said quickly, the seed within her having now become a tree of blossoming fear, "There's this boy. I met him last night. I need to see him. Today. If today is still today that is and I haven't slept through it. Just I promised, Doctor Anderson. He's my only friend and if I break my promise I will be hurting him and our friendship."

Doctor Anderson seemed to take all this in, staying silent for a little bit. Pink considered he did this a lot. Chewing over words and digesting them. Both hers and his own.

"A boy you say?" Doctor Anderson eventually replied. His words were short and concise. Leaving it to Pink to further elaborate with her own. Perhaps Doctor Anderson had not had his breakfast yet, like her, and wished for more words to eat and digest.

"Yes, his name is Anthony." Pink continued on with, looking towards the door despairingly and trying to make Doctor Anderson understand the urgency. Almost imagining that if Anthony had not left already he might be preparing to depart any minute now. "I met him last night. At least I thought it was last night. I haven't been asleep for another three days have I? Anthony is the boy down the hall who cannot see. I know I aren't meant to leave my room at night but I couldn't sleep and met him. He is leaving today and I need to see him before he goes. I promised."

"Well then." The doctor eventually responded with. Seeming to have had his fill with words, "I can guarantee you that you haven't been asleep for another three days. It is only a little past ten thirty in the morning. The morning after our session yesterday, that is Pink. So then.." Doctor Anderson said as he stood from the chair he was sitting in and walked over to Pink, guiding her back over to the tray of food. "No need to worry. And you need to eat. So help yourself while your breakfast is still warm."

"but.." Pink began, looking back to the door, still unsure. She was hungry. Starving, come to think of it. But her promise to Anthony was far more important than any needs she might have.

"No buts. You made a promise and it is commendable that you wish to keep it. But your health is my biggest concern, and it should be yours. How about this, you made a promise to see this boy? I'll make one of my own. I'll promise you'll see him before he leaves. So you eat. After that, I have a few more games I'd like you to play. I thought we'd do some drawings today. Then we'll see about this boy you need to see."

Pink was a little uncertain, but she had no reason to doubt Doctor Anderson's words. He had been so nice to her so far. So the hungry girl sat herself down next to the table on which the tray of food sat and removed the cover, revealing what looked like scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice.

Not at all what I would have made for myself, she considered. Strawberry pancakes and pink grapefruit juice came to mind when she imagined the perfect breakfast she would cook. But it would be rude to be fussy when someone had made this especially for her. Plus she was awfully hungry. So Pink carefully took the tray and placed it onto her lap and began to eat as Doctor Anderson smiled at her and walked out the door.

The eggs were nice and hot, along with the toast. Which was good in a number of ways. Firstly it meant that this was breakfast. A freshly made breakfast. So she really must not have over slept for too long. Secondly she was cold. Not on the surface, but there was a chill deep in her bones. It must have been from the early morning expedition, she concluded. It was between the third mouthful of toast and egg that Pink happened to look at the tiled floor of the room. It was clean, spotless, and not a single trace of her after dawn activities. At least, what she remembered as her after dawn activities. Her crayons were neatly packed away, her drawing paper neatly stacked.

Pink's blue eyes next moved down to her hands. The only thing they were covered in were crumbs. There was no trace of crayon residue she remembered. At least, thought she remembered. From her hands her eyes then trailed further up her arm, towards the white, faded, cotton dress she wore. It too seemed untouched. Perhaps she had dreamt it all, Pink began to conclude. It did seem very surreal after all. At the time she had felt like she was a puppet on a set of strings, being pulled this way and that. Hardly thinking about what she was doing, or needed to do, instead finding herself performing actions in an almost daze.

Now that she thought about it further, it did seem like a dream. And since there was no evidence in her room that the events had actually taken place Pink decided to treat it as a dream. Now, her meeting with Anthony, that wasn't a dream. She remembered the rush of joy she felt when he had smiled at her during their meeting. Even now she smiled at the memory. She had a friend.

By the time Doctor Anderson returned, Pink had finished her breakfast and had a chance to not only put her hair back into their usual pigtails but give her hair a good brushing with a brush she had found in her bedside table draw. There was still no sign of the dress she felt belonged to her, but the white cotton one she still wore still seemed clean. Just like her hands showing no signs of any possible pre dawn activities.

"Now Pink.." He said, moving to the neatly stacked paper and neatly boxed crayons over by her mat. "Today, as I said, I thought we'd do some drawings. You were so good at the remember game we might as well do something different today. Does that sound fun?"

Pink wasn't sure. She loved colouring, sure. But after she had woken this morning something felt.. different. Exhausted almost. But Doctor Anderson had promised that after she played some games with him she could fulfil her promise and meet the boy with the unseeing eyes. And anyway, it was the nice thing to do. To play the games he wanted. As maybe Doctor Anderson didn't have anyone to play with? This was the second day in a row he wanted to play games, so the least she could do was be friendly to him. Keeping this in mind the girl nodded to the very old, very tall person and stepped over to her mat.

Sitting down, Pink took a piece of paper from the neat stack and a crayon from the box. A blue crayon. Jaybird blue. She then looked up at Doctor Anderson and asked, "What do I need to draw? Will you be drawing too?" It was his game after all.

"Anything you like, Pink." He said, taking the seat she had eaten her breakfast on and moving it over to sit a few feet away from her.

He sat, watching keenly. For the first time Pink considered that his eyes seemed very much like those of a cat. Watching everything hungrily; intently. Perhaps it was not just words he consumed and digested, but actions as well.

"And I won't be drawing anything today. Maybe next time."

So, she could draw anything? Well.. that made the game more easy. Or, after consideration, more hard. As the pink haired girl wasn't sure what she wanted to draw. Or, after even further consideration, was expected to draw. So after a few more moment's thought on how to approach this task Pink took the blue crayon and, starting at the bottom right hand corner of the piece of paper, began to carefully work on filling the entire piece of paper with blue. Colouring it in. All the while getting an almost mischievously guilty feeling that she was doing something naughty. That someone, somewhere, would be protesting that she was colouring things with the colour blue.

Maybe that someone was Doctor Anderson?

Once she was about a third of the way through the piece of paper, replacing the white blandness with brilliant blue, Pink looked up to see what Doctor Anderson thought. Still intently he watched her, but unlike the previous day he didn't wear the pleased smile he had worn whenever she beat him. Or an understanding smile when she did something wrong. There was an ever so faint frown visible on his features.

At her glance he said, asking, "Can I ask what you are drawing, Pink? Is that perhaps the sky?"

Pink looked down at the paper, tilting her head and considering, "No. The paper is plain, so I'm colouring it in. It will look nicer when it is blue."

Doctor Anderson lent down and to Pink's surprise actually took the piece of paper she had been colouring in, placing it in his lap atop the clipboard he always had with him. He then took another sheet of bland, plain, untouched whiteness from the stack on the floor and set it out before Pink.

"Sorry, but the game is you need to draw something. A picture. Such as yourself or say, atree or a cat. Anything you like. But it needs to be a drawing. Once you have done your drawing then you can colour it in if you like."

Looking down at the newly placed piece of blank paper, Pink thought to herself that she had liked how the blue colouring was going. Her original piece of paper was starting to look so much more interesting and lively. There was something just so.. right about filling something with colour. Without colour everything seemed just to be slumbering.. waiting. Then you filled it with colour and life, awakening it and letting it reach its full potential. She liked seeing that.

But, this was Doctor Anderson's game and if he said the rules were you had to draw something, not just colour, then she had to do as the rules said. That's why games had rules, after all. So everyone adhered to them. Without rules, no one would know when a game was won or lost. No one would play correctly or fairly.

Still holding the blue crayon, Pink put it to paper again and started over. This time drawing a careful straight line. She then drew another, and then a third, drawing a triangle.

Once the triangle was complete, she moved her hand over a couple of inches and started to draw a circle. After which she drew a square, rectangle, oblong and a pentagon. Each simple shapes, composed of nothing but lines.

It was by the stage Pink was working on an octagon that she looked up again and again saw that Doctor Anderson still wasn't smiling. Though she was unsure why, she was drawing as he had asked. She even said as much.

"Pink.." the older of the two began, "A drawing has pictures. Images. Mountains, grass, skies. A drawing tells a story. That's the type of drawing you need to do. While your shapes are nice, they are just that. Shapes."

The girl looked down at the shapes she had been working on a little disheartened, then looked back to the very tall, very old person sitting watching her and pointed out, remembering the rules, "You said I could draw anything I want."

That was why games had rules. So you could make sure you played properly. Or, as seemed to be the case with Doctor Anderson, when someone wasn't.

"Well then." He said, "Let's change the game we are playing? How about I name things and you draw them? Does that sound more fun?"

Pink considered. On the day before this, when they had played games in the butter yellow room Doctor Anderson had commented that she had an eye for detail. More, it was that she was good at seeing the little things. Picking up on subtle nuances. And here and now she was picking up on a subtle nuance in Doctor Anderson's tone. It was the type of tone one would use, during a game, when you wanted to play a trick on someone you were playing with. Where you might tell them during Hide and Seek to go hide while you count to 100 but instead you only count to 20.

But seeing why was like trying to see spectral purple. It eluded the girl, Pink couldn't quite see why Doctor Anderson had this new tint within his voice. Perhaps it was all just part of the game?

So, seeing no reason not to, the Pink Kid nodded to him that she would play by his further new rules.

"Okay. Let's start by drawing the sun." Doctor Anderson said.

It seemed like a simple enough request, the pink haired girl thought. Drawing the sun would be easy. It was a circle coloured correctly, wasn't it? So, she began sorting through her box of crayons, picking out a yellow one. She brought the drawing tool down to the paper, while Doctor Anderson looked on expectantly, and then hesitated.

A feeling began to well within her the closer she got to the paper. A turbulent and scary emotion. It wasn't the same feeling she had in her dream this morning, when she colored the sunrise.. but it was just as strong. This was a foreboding feeling, one where she felt she was about to do something terribly wrong. Something almost sinful.

In all games there are rules. Rules that must be adhered to. And the girl's instincts, the subconscious race memory that science is yet able to explain, were warning her of a very important rule that she must follow. She was allowed to Color, but never Create. Anything that already existed could be Colored by her. That was her right. But Coloring something from nothing, Coloring into existence something that didn't already exist was something she was not allowed to do.

The girl frowned at these feelings, unsure where they were coming from, looking back at Doctor Anderson in confusion. Was this part of his game? He seemed to be watching her, wanting to continue on. Even motioning with his head to continue. So Pink lowered her yellow crayon further, almost touching it's tip to the paper. Then she dropped it.

There was pain. Deep within her stomach Pink felt her insides cramping up. Like an angry fist, knotting and clenching tight. As the muscles in her abdomen balled up, so did she. Pink drew her feet up to her stomach and closed her eyes, curling into a ball and wincing. The yellow crayon dropping and rolling across the white floor. Away.

"Owww.." the pinked haired girl moaned, rocking herself back and forth.

Doctor Anderson was quickly beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"My tummy hurts." Pink whimpered, all thoughts of coloring disappearing from her head. The cramping pain in her stomach made it too difficult to concentrate on anything else.

The girl kept her eyes squeezed shut in a wince, rocking back and forth all the while, almost trying to calm her upset stomach through the gentle rocking motion. She felt large, strong hands suddenly place themselves under her arms and pick her effortlessly up. Soon she was on her bed again, laying on her side and curled into a ball.

"I'll get Nurse Elliott." Doctor Anderson said, his hand going to her forehead and touching it for a few moments. "I'll see if she can give you something to help with your tummy."

She heard his footsteps walking quickly away and she was alone again. Just her and her thoughts. And her angry stomach. But truth be told, now that she was up on her bed, away from the crayons and the paper and the expectations she was beginning to feel better. But she let Doctor Anderson go anyway. She didn't really feel like coloring today. Or at least, doing the type of coloring he wanted her to do. As she lay there, in the silence, her stomach soon had calmed itself. Its clenched muscles easing away, the sea of unrest settling into a smooth calm.

The girl of pink hair patted it gently through her cotton skirt, mentally telling it that it need not fuss any further so please behave. She would do something else that they would find more interesting and fun than coloring. There was a promise she had to keep.

Making sure Doctor Anderson hadn't returned yet, Pink grinned to herself and skipped out the door. Doing her best not to be seen. Which sometimes seemed a bit too easy. As when she tried her best, it was as if people couldn't see her at all.

No wonder she was always so good at hide and seek.

Anthony squeezed his fists tightly, feeling like he wanted to scream in frustration. Or better yet, throw and break something. She was impossible. No, more than impossible. She was so impossible that it was impossible to describe how impossible she was.

If he had to listen to one more lecture from his mom about how he had done something incredibly foolish and this is why he couldn't be trusted, Anthony felt as though next time he was able to leave the house he would just keep on walking. He didn't have any other place to go, but anywhere was better than there. And so he would just walk. Find somewhere where he could be his own person.

At least the hospital was a nice refuge away from home, for the time being. It was lunch and he could hear the lunch cart rattling down the halls. Morning visiting hours were up and so fortunately his mom had to go. Giving him a respite from all the lectures. From all the reminders of the things he apparently cannot do.

Cannot. It was a terrible word. It was a steep cliff face carved with the words 'inability' that one could not climb. There was no navigating around it. No going forward. Only going back. When cannot was thrown his way, it just made Anthony more determined to show that he could. For if he let an unpassable barrier appear each time he heard 'cannot' be said, sooner or later he would be walled off and away, in a corner he could not escape from.

It was fortunate in the sense that it seemed his stay had been extended. Although all their tests showed that there didn't appear to be a sign of any internal injuries and technically he could go home now if he wished, one of the hospital's psychologists had approached him earlier in the morning. The doctor offered, after asking if he was indeed looking forward to going home and Anthony giving his honest answer, that he could stay a few more days if he liked. To 'ensure he was fully ready to head back home'. It was an offer Anthony had happily accepted.

And now he was here. For how long he didn't know. But he did know it was better than being at home. At least it had seemed that way. Until he realised there wasn't much to do. Their library didn't contain any brail material. The hospital radio hadn't so far produced any interesting songs. And it was getting too late in the evening to begin exploring again.

So he was left alone. As he so often was at home.

History was repeating itself, but not in the way Anthony first thought.

For it began as it had done the previous night. First there were the footsteps, stepping in a happy almost skipping manner. Then there was the faint, sugary sweet candy scent of cotton candy.

Anthony couldn't help but smile, listening to the footsteps make their way towards his hospital bed. He felt the fabric of the bedspread he was sitting on tense as an end was pulled upon, no doubt being used as a handhold due to the hospital bed being some distance off the ground. Then there was a grunt of effort and the mattress beneath him shook slightly as a new occupant managed to pull herself up on to the bed.

"I'm glad you're here." the new arrival's voice said. She had a high, light voice that tickled through the air merrily. Seeming to give the impression that the owner was smiling. Or if she wasn't smiling, she wanted nothing more than to, "I thought I might have missed you. I so wanted to keep my promise."

Her name was Pink, Anthony remembered. Like the color. The color that was meaningless to him. The color was meaningless, though she was not. Amongst all the family drama today he had kept looking forward to the hopeful possibility that the girl he had met the night before would return. She seemed so.. happy. And carefree. Her mood was so high that it was as if, when talking to her, Anthony felt his own mood uplifting so as to reach her.

"I'm glad you wanted to keep your promise." he responded, genuinely. Hoping that she was wearing the same smile that her voice seemed to convey her wearing. "How have you been? How are your memories? Anything surfaced yet?"

If the girl was sad about her current state, she didn't show it in her voice. It was still as happy and energetic as always, "No, not yet. At least nothing that I can remember not remembering."

There was a giggle after this. She seemed always to be in such good spirits. Anthony couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in her position. Not remembering your friends, your family, your life. He considered to himself, if he had forgotten everything, how would he react. Would he be in such good spirits as this girl called Pink? Would he even be the same person that he was right now? People are shaped by their memories. From birth to death they are constantly moulded and redefined by the choices they make and the experiences they encounter. From everything they remember. Look at him, would he be the same person he was now if he hadn't defied his mother and attempted to walk to school on his own? For one he wouldn't be here right now. He wouldn't have met the girl called Pink.

So if people were shaped and defined from birth by what their memories were, what did that make Pink? Without any memories, did that mean she was brand new? Untouched by the worries and troubles of the world. She seemed like it.. always so happy. Always ready to laugh about what would worry someone else.

Except for..

"And the eyes?" Anthony asked cautiously. "They haven't come for you again?"

The girl's tone dropped. This time the audible smile in her voice seemed to have disappeared. A fact that Anthony felt guilty about. To remove the laughter and joy from someone so innocent and carefree seemed a terrible act.

"No. They haven't." The girl said, quietly. "I think I have lost them, or they have forgotten about me. At least I hope so. I haven't gone looking for any new memories today, just in case."

And Anthony's hand found itself moving along the bed, taking her hand within his own again as he had done the previous night. Her hand was smaller than his, indicating she was probably younger than him. It felt soft and small and fragile, her little fingers wrapping around his own. Clutching to him. He held her hand, reforging the same connection that had sprung forth last night. But she was still quiet. He had said the wrong thing.

"So tell me about red." Anthony said, somewhat out of the blue. Wishing to take Pink's mind away from the topic of the eyes that were in her memories. To once again hear the laughter in her voice.

"Red? The color?" Pink asked, her voice changing to a tone of curiosity.

"Well.. " Anthony began to explain, more asking for Pink's benefit. Choosing a topic that he hoped would make her happy, "Last night you explained what the color pink was. Now when I think of pink, I imagine you. I kind of now, well, have an understanding of what pink is. I was hoping you might describe some other colors for me. Although I cannot see them, I would like to know them. At least know about them from your perspective."

Anthony felt the mattress beneath him bounce a little, the hand he was holding also shake up and down as the owner bounced on the bed. When she spoke there was excitement in her voice, her words coming out fast. "Okay, that sounds great fun. Let me see.. red." And the girl paused, though only in voice. Anthony could feel she was still bobbing about on the bed as she thought, "Okay. If you are imagining the color pink.."

"Well, if I'm imagining you.." Anthony reminded, since the girl had become the unofficial Ambassador to Pink the night just passed. Giving Anthony something more physical and substantial to relate the color to, the color he had never seen before.

"Well okay." Pink continued on with, "Imagine.. Red is.. very close to Pink. You could almost think they were brother and sister. So close is their resemblance. Where there is Pink, Red is often not far away. Maybe it is because Red is the older of the two. Older and stronger. Pink is subtle.. gentle.. female. While Red is brash, passionate and so very like a boy. Red is the colour of fire. Of emotion. It's because he is so strong willed that makes him so brash. Sometimes he bites off more than he can chew, but even though he might he still never backs down. He is brash, but also brave."

Anthony tried imagining along with Pink's explanation. He did imagine a boy, as Pink described. A boy who was always brash, doing what he wanted. Or more importantly, what he felt was right. He thought for a moment that Pink might be simply trying to describe himself. After all, Anthony was brash.. sometimes getting in over his head; but never backing down. But then he remembered Pink didn't anything about what had brought him to the hospital. The episode of running through traffic purely because he didn't want to admit defeat. Almost getting himself killed.

So perhaps although she wasn't describing him, red was his color. He liked the sound of it. But he did pause, trying to clarify "So, Pink has a brother? You have a brother? And he is, well, Red?"

The girl fell silent for a few moments.. her index finger resting over his hand tapping away atop it. It seemed she was thinking this question over.

"Noo." She replied. Drawing the word out, seeming to not be completely certain. "If you were imagining Pink and Red to be real people.. they could be brother and sister. But they're not. They're just.. simular. Pink would be the girl version of Red and Red would be the boy version of Pink. They're simular people. The same, but different."

Anthony didn't fully understand, but he thought he understood enough. He liked the idea that he was like the color red. After all, Pink had said the color red was close to the color pink. And he liked the idea of being close to the girl who lifted his mood so.

Though Anthony's face did flush a little, flush red he reminded himself as he felt his cheeks burning a bit, as he asked further, "How close are Red and Pink then, if they were real people of course. If they are simular then does that mean Pink likes Red? You know.. like likes."

"Oh no!" Pink exclaimed, suddenly giggling. Anthony felt Pink's left hand give his shoulder a little push, as if he had said something outrageously funny. But she still kept her right hand within his, Anthony noticed, all the while. "They may not be brother and sister. But they might as well be. Anyway, everyone knows Red loves Lala and she loves Red."

"Lala?" Anthony repeated. Not entirely sure of which color this was. Truth was he never did really worry much about them before now. There were so many types after all. Red, yellow, pink, magenta, aqua marine, turquoise. It was an alien language to him. "What color is Lala?"

The girl was silent again, which Anthony took to mean she was thinking. "Lala.." Pink repeated, quietly. Softly. Her voice quivering slightly. "I have a friend.. her name was Lala. Err.. is Lala. I think.. she.. umm.."

Quietness again. Anthony didn't say a word. In fact, he realised, as the seconds passed, he was even holding his breath as the girl seemed to be trying to remember something. Something from before she arrived, which before now she had never remember anything.

"She.. umm.." The girl repeated again. Her voice was now little more than a squeak. But she didn't say a word after that.

Anthony held her hand all the while, waiting hopefully for some revelation to spring forth from her mouth of who she was or who Lala might be. But the silence persisted, till Anthony began to feel her hand tremble and shudder within his own.

The sensation of a tiny droplet of warm liquid splashing down onto his bare right forearm caused his arm goose pimple. Then another tiny droplet was felt coming in quick succession. It took a moment for Anthony to realise that with the shaking of the girl and the squeaking in her voice, that the wet drops on his arm were tears. She was crying.

Somewhat awkwardly Anthony moved forward, wrapping his arms around the silently sobbing girl and he held her. Held the girl of laughter and innocence for what seemed like forever, letting minutes roll quietly by, letting her bury her head into his shoulder and cry.

He didn't say anything while she did so. Sometimes it was more important to just be there, as a shoulder to cry on when a friend needed it. To be there so that the tears didn't fall to the floor, alone and forgotten.

Once her shaking seemed to fade, Anthony unwrapped his arms from the girl. Drew his face away from above the cotton candy scented hair.

"What is wrong?" Anthony eventually said. Uncertain what had caused the sudden shift in the girl's mood, "You shouldn't worry if you aren't able to remember who Lala is. I mean, being able to even remember that you have a friend named Lala should be reason to celebrate."

"No, no it isn't." Pink said. There was sorrow in her voice. Even though her crying had stopped whatever was troubling her had not. "I could almost see her. See the memory. It was standing right before me. But I chose not to grab it and embrace it and discover who Lala is. I was too scared the eyes would find me if I did. I was scared they would be angry if I did and come for me."

She bemoaned, her voice muffled as she covered her face with something, "I'm a coward, Anthony. And a terrible friend. Whoever Lala is, I'm sure she deserves better. Deserves a friend who wants to remember her. Who would fight to."

Anthony thought about this. The girl seemed petrified of 'the eyes', of a memory which contained them. He had the worrying feeling that something bad had happened to Pink. Something that had caused her to flee not just from the memory of the eyes, but everything else connected to them.

But she was remembering, wasn't she? Slowly, even though when she realised she was she would try not to. Each time he said something that would almost remind her of something from her past the girl of giggles and laughter shifted to tears. But the teenager guessed that it would just be a matter of time. Before she did remember everything whether she wanted to or not. And he worried that when she did she would have to finally face the memory of 'the eyes'.

It was unfair, someone as sweet as her had so many troubles. And his talk of colors hadn't distracted her from her troubles.. in fact it had just made her remember all the more. He needed something different.

"Alright Pink.." Anthony said, suddenly smiling. "You've been showing me your world, I want you to try mine."

Pink carefully rolled the white pillow case over her head, her pigtails lost within it. She looked at Anthony as she did so, he was sitting on his bed smiling. He seemed really happy about this new game. And truth be told, so was she. Not because games were fun, not because making people happy was important. But simply because she really liked her friend Anthony and she did indeed want to see what his world was like.

Still, in the back of her mind, she worried about Lala. That whoever this girl was, wherever she was, Pink was failing their friendship by choosing to not remember. To remember who Lala was. To remember who the boy of red was who dated Lala. To remember where the canary song filled fields were.

The game of hide and seek with her memories within her mind had begun to change this day. No longer were they silent, hidden entities. Now they were calling towards her as she walked through her mental landscape. Tempting her to find them. But she couldn't, as she knew what was there waiting for her if she did. She whispered a silent 'I hope you understand. I'm sorry.' to Lala, wherever she might be.

"Okay.." Pink said, verbalising her actions so that she could keep Anthony informed of where she was up to, "I'm pulling the pillow case over my eyes now."

As she did so, Pink's vision became obstructed. Where there was once the vibrant colors that made up the world there was suddenly nothing. Just like the previous night, where she had squeezed her eyes shut trying to imagine what it must be like to be blind, she was alone in the darkness.

"And?" she heard Anthony's voice say.

After he spoke she heard a thump on the floor over by the bed. So she replied with, "And umm.. and I can't see. What was that noise?"

It was then footsteps that Pink heard, stepping over towards her from where the thump had sounded. They were loud footsteps, seeming too loud. The person making them was deliberately making them loud, stamping their feet. At least, that's what it sounded like.

"I now hear footsteps." Pink said, turning about on the spot. Facing the footsteps even though it was pointless since she couldn't see what was causing them. "You're making the footsteps, aren't you? The thump I heard was you sliding off the bed?"

The footsteps stopped in front of her, she then felt a hand touch her right shoulder, slowly trail down her arm and once it found her hand grasp it.

"Yes. That's right." Anthony said. He sounded happy. He then explained, slowly, "You could hear my footsteps approaching you, couldn't you? Okay, know how I knew where you were in the room? I listened to your voice. Just because you can't see doesn't mean you can't take in what is going on around you."

Pink then heard Anthony take a few more deliberate steps. Ones done loud enough to ensure she heard them. And she felt Anthony pull on her right hand, guiding her forward after him.

What must they look like? To someone watching them. But then, Pink considered, the hand pulling her forward, it didn't matter in the sightless world how they looked. What mattered was touch, smell and sound. No one would ever know how they appeared. Would never see Anthony stomping his feet in front of her, see her with a pillow case on her head.

So as his hand tugged she followed him, within his shared sightless world, Anthony saying as they walked, "We're going to my closet. I want to show you something else. Listening is just one part of navigating about."

There was a term she had once heard, wasn't there? 'The blind leading the blind.'. It was used to describe someone clueless or hindered leading someone else just as clueless and hindered. As the older boy's hand gently guided her along and forward, Anthony making each and every one of his actions deliberately loud or slow so as to let Pink catch them or understand them, Pink decided that phrase was completely ignorant and inaccurate. She may be hindered and hampered right now.. but Anthony was not. This was his world and he knew how to navigate about it. So she had no fears about him leading her wherever he wanted her to go. Whoever had made up 'the blind leading the blind' was just dumb and didn't know what they were talking about.

The pink haired girl felt Anthony's footsteps slow to a shuttle, then stop altogether. A knock was heard, of someone rapping on wood. She felt Anthony's right hand gently guide her over to stand by his side, and then both his hands run down her arms to draw her hands up and forward, gently placing them on a wooden surface in front of them.

"Your closet?" Pink queried, running her hands up and over what felt like a wooden door, the grain of wood rolling under her finger tips. "But how did you know where it was so easily?"

"I remembered." Anthony said. "I've been in this room for two days now. And I wasn't about to spend them all in bed. So I explored, I felt around, I remembered."

Pink next felt Anthony's hands come up and gently guide her own away from the closet door, then there was the creek of hinges moving and the slight movement of air before her face. She knew that it must haven been Anthony opening the closet. She heard rustling within, something clicking a few times, then once again she felt Anthony's hands on her own. They were pressing something cold, thin and cylindrical into her hands. It felt like a thin plastic stick.

"This.." Anthony said, his voice closer to her hear, "Is my cane. I use it to feel along the ground. To feel for obstacles and determine the layout of a place. Try it.. wave it about in front of you as you walk. Use it to search for things in your way."

She felt along the length of the cane she had been handed, hands eventually finding what seemed to be a rubber handle which she wrapped her fingers around. Turning about, the pink haired girl held the cane before her and swished it through the air.

Whack.

She felt it impact with something. Which must mean she was doing this properly. Though she wasn't quite clear how Anthony worked out what he was feeling with the cane. So she swished it through the air again, at leg height

Whack.

"I can feel I'm hitting something." Pink said excitably after the second swing.

"Yes.. that something would be me." Anthony replied dryly, his voice carrying from in front of her.

Pink paused at this, and then started to giggle. Sure, she should feel bad about hitting her friend. Even by accident. But it was just one of those events that simply seemed funny. So she laughed. Happy to hear Anthony was soon joining her.

"Let me try again." She said between the giggles. "You might want to take a step back."

"Okay. Just be gentle. Delicate sweeps with the cane. You don't need to attack any obstacles in your way." Anthony suggested, sounding amused all the while. "Use the cane to get the feel of your environment. Remember what is where in your head and move around it."

So Pink tried again, within the blackness remembering what the room looked like. Doctor Anderson had said she had an eye for detail, hadn't he? She was always good at remembering things.. well.. most of the time.

So she remembered the room. How it had looked. The colors that made it up, that defined a wall from a floor. The subtle play of shadows against whites and greys and blues that offset everything.

She concentrated, using her talented eye to recall it all.

And..

She was doing it all wrong, wasn't she? She was using the memories of what she had seen with her eyes to help her now that she couldn't rely on them. That wasn't how Anthony did it. He didn't get to take a quick mental, visual picture each time he walked into a room and then rely on it. He used his cane as his eyes. Or, as his hands more correctly.

It was harder than she expected. She had never imagined living in a world without colors, but there was such a place, wasn't there? Anthony had taken her there, into his world. But she could never really take him to experience her rainbow land could she? She'd never be able to show him a sunrise, and that made her sad.

She reached her hands forward, felt Anthony before her and after feeling down the length of his arm, as he seemed to do, she found his hands and placed the cane into it. The girl then reached up and slid the pillow case away from her eyes and off her head.

It was like stepping out of one world and into another. As her eyes blinked rapidly as bright light streamed back into them. As she adjusted her mind set to living in a world without sight to living in a world with sight.

The pink haired girl thought to herself that the sightless world was much more tactile than the seeing world. In the seeing world she saw with her eyes, in the unseeing world she had to see with her hands. No wonder Anthony was always holding hers.

She gave the pillow case back to Anthony, so that he could tell she had removed it from her own eyes and had left his world to rejoin her own. Though she did keep her hands on his, resting over his white cane, as one final connection between her world and his.

"Why are you here?" Pink said suddenly, looking up at the taller boy. She knew why she was here in the land of the lost. It was because she could not remember. Because she would not. But why was Anthony?

"Why am I here? Right now?" He repeated, smiling a bit self-consciously. With a shrug he admitted, "Me and my mom are having another one of our never ending butting of heads. I'm too independent, she is too overprotective. It's a situation where neither of us will get what we want. So I'm taking a bit of a break from things and staying here. Doctor Anderson suggested it."

"I don't have a mom." Pink said, simply and casually, as one would comment that it was a nice day today. Or their shoe lace was undone.

"Oh, I'm sorry?" Anthony offered. He sounded uncertain.

"Well, I don't remember having a mom. I mean I might.. But I don't know, I'm pretty certain I don't have one. I just feel it.."

Anthony bit his lips, frowning a little as he appeared to be considering this. Or what words to say next as he was quiet. Eventually he said, seeming a little unsure of himself, "But you do have somewhere you belong. You have friends. Lala for example.. Maybe you live with her?"

Pink shook her head, her pink pigtails flicking about her shoulders as she so often liked them to do, "No, let's not talk about that. Not this afternoon. I don't want to remember just yet." She had had enough remembering. Or reminding that she wasn't brave. "Let's play instead. As this is where I belong, right here and right now." She grinned, "I still have colors I need to tell you about. Next there's yellow.."

"But.."

"No, Trust me, you'll love yellow. And we still have the whole afternoon ahead of us."

Henry Anderson sat at his desk within his private office, at the end of the day, holding a strand of hair up to his desk lamp. It was pink. Which to the casual observer wasn't too surprising. Just a glance from a distance and one could tell the hair was pink.

No, the interesting thing was that the entire strand of hair was pink. Even the root. Until now everyone was under the belief that the girl's hair had been dyed. It certainly was uncommon for a preteen to be walking around with what looked like a punk hair color. But then again, it was uncommon for a girl who looked healthy, clean and cared for to be found lying in a coma in an alley. Dressed in what appeared to be a pink party dress. So no one had looked too closely at her hair. Until now.

At that thought Henry Anderson's eyes lifted up to the bright pink party dress with rainbow striped sleeves that hung on a coat hanger on his wall. And to the clean pink boots that showed almost no wear on the soles, which were placed neatly on the floor beneath the dress.

He considered briefly that actually they weren't technically rainbow stiped sleeves.. they were colored as a supernumerary rainbow. Colored in the pastel colored bands that are seen in a rare type of rainbow that appears along side the main rainbow.

The clothes looked new and expensive. This girl was certainly no street kid. The label on the inside of the dress simply said 'Tickled Pink'. At first the general assumption was that 'Tickled Pink' was the brand name of the clothes. But now Anderson was not so sure. Everyone had assumed this child's hair had been dyed and look at how mistaken they were about that.

Pink hair..

Henry's eyes went back to the strand of hair between his fingertips, which he had obtained this morning as Nurse Elliott and himself had cleaned and changed the clothes of the crayon covered girl that was dead to the world. 'Pink' didn't stir at all as they cleaned her, her room and changed her clothes and bedding. So it was simple enough to pluck a few strands of hair from her head.

Nobody had pink hair, at least naturally. At least, no cases he was ever aware of. Hair was colored due to two different pigments. The pink and red hued pigment pheomelanin and the dark pigment neuromelain. Red hair is produced due to an individual's hair having a greater concentration of pheomelanin and less neuromelain than other hair types.

Henry Anderson considered that pheomelainin could certainly color areas of the skin pink. Perhaps this girl had a rare genetic trait where her pheomelainin levels in her hair colored it pink?

Perhaps, he thought to himself, laying the strand of hair inside his desk draw atop an almost photo like drawing of a sunrise, one done in crayon.

Time would tell. He had left 'Pink' up to her own devices today, after she had disappeared from her room and found the boy she had befriended. But tomorrow was another day.

Tomorrow he would order more in depth physical tests than the ones they gave her when she was first admitted. Blood work, MRIs, cognitive reaction. The list of tests were long. And would be until he worked out the puzzle that was this girl. It was the IQ test he would be paying close attention to. She certainly didn't conduct herself like an eight year old should. If he had to guess he'd approximate her mental age at about fourteen.

But, Henry Anderson reminded himself as he turned off his desk lamp and stood, that would be tomorrow. For now it was after hours and he had a life outside these hospital's walls.

Anderson left his office, turning the main light off and closing and locking the door behind him as he left. As twilight fell within his office, unnoticed, the star shaped pouch of the all pink belt of the dress that hung within glowed slightly. Faintly; just at the seams of the fabric. Within the pouch, undiscovered and forgotten, a solitary pink star sprinkle softly sparkled.

It was dimmer than it had been last night. And last night it was dimmer than it was the night before that. In fact the star sprinkle hardly held any of the brilliance it once did.

But it glimmered all the same, with as much pink brilliance as it could manage. All the while unaware that here in this place as each day passed it's pink light was slowly dying.