"Yellow Plus Red" -- A Short Story

It's a pleasure to behold your lovely faces again.

Since Hannah so kindly shared a lovely piece of literature, I thought I would share a piece of my own "literature".

SLOSHY THE KAPPA: What's with the quotation marks?

I assure you I don't know what you're talking about. Anyway, I am going to share with you some of my "literature".

SLOSHY THE KAPPA: There it is again!

Am I going to have to bring out the rubber ducky again?

SLOSHY THE KAPPA: . . .

Anyway, I used to be an avid part of a writing site called The Young Writers Society. I don't participate it in it as often now, as the site has diminished somewhat, but it's still a wonderful place to share your writing. I used to enter some contests, and this piece I wrote is one of those contest entries.

The rules for the contest were that you had to use a random prompt generator to fuel the idea for your story, and the story had to be under 1000 words. I went through a lot of stupid ones before I found a prompt I liked. The prompt I chose was this:
"Your story is about a historian in a mental institution wandering the highlands."

If that sounds impossible to logically work with, that's because it is. So I decided to be a little crazy with it. So indeed, I did write a story about a historian in a mental institution wandering the highlands, and I'm proud of it. Please, read the story and share your thoughts.
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                                                             "Yellow Plus Red"


They put me in here because I'm afraid of the color orange. 

My fear is completely logical, but they don't think it is so I'm in here. White walls -- soft, composed of thick doughy squares that look like couch cushions all sewn together. So white. Not orange. 

It's completely logical that I hate the color. Let me tell you why. One, it's ugly. It's the exact color of the bloody pus that oozes out of your ear after your eardrum bursts from an infection. It's vibrant, but it doesn't belong: it clashes with any color it comes into contact with. It's an unnatural mix of red and yellow. Whenever I see an orange flower I think that that flower isn't actually real; it's just another illusion mocking me, just because I hate the color and the world knows it and it wants to show me that it knows it.

The world can't mock me because I'm behind these walls, but sometimes orange comes and prints small, bright footsteps all over my room, and I panic and throw myself against the couch cushions, trying to drown out the noise I begin to hear. The noise goes 

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

and it repeats over and over and it won't shut up. I know that it's orange's fault. It's completely logical. I'm a logical man.

Yet I'm here. 

I'm one-hundred percent positive that I am a historian. I know of the past, thus, I'm a historian. I have brown hair, tinged with gray, which falls past my eyes. I want to get a haircut, but they won't let me close to sharp objects, and I don't trust them around me with sharp objects. Honestly, I would give anything for a sharp object right now. I would prick my finger and I'd wait and see if blood comes out, and if I see red I'll know I'm alive. For all I know I could be dead; no one has told me otherwise. But I might be alive because in my mind I'm living, and in my mind I'm wandering the highlands. 

The hills are bright green, brighter than the highlands should be, but in my place I see what I want to. The landscape rolls up and down like a blanket flapping in the wind. The sun is completely obscured with a thick layer of clouds, thank goodness. Instead, light seems to appear randomly. Everything of interest gives a light, and the most interesting thing is her. 

Blank, wide, eyes stare at me. I move, but her eyes do not follow. They stay focused at the same spot. Her red lips are parted. Her skin is blanched and bloodless, with small, blue veins that branch along her throat. Her head is tilted too far to the right. It would give her a painful crick, always being like that, but since she doesn't feel anything, I think she’s fine with it. She hangs in the air, about one foot off of the ground. Nothing’s keeping her up there. 

She's always hanging, and I'm always standing. It hasn't changed since they brought me here. When I choose to see her, I can never do anything except stand. I want to touch her, but I can't because the world knows I want to touch her and it wants me to know that I can't touch her. 

She has a bracelet that's silver, with a small key on it that bounces off her wrist in the breeze: 

Tap. 
Tap. 
Tap. 

We stand together in silent companionship, and I’m happy, I think. But then she speaks. 

I've forgotten what words sound like. I began to ignore them when they took me here, after they said I had a nervous breakdown. I forgot after the antiseptic smiles phased to placid expressions, then to exasperated looks. All I have left are the voices inside my head, but I cannot actually hear them. They are whispers escaping open lips, never inflected or pronounced, yet I understand them. 

So whispers escape her gaping mouth and they mean,

"Why am I here?"

So I mean back, 

"Because you're my everything." 

A chill runs down my spine. She whispers,

"Your Everything is Nothing." 

The highlands begin to swirl. Light emanates from strange places, as if it doesn't know where it belongs. The clouds form strange shapes, unmasking the sun which covers the world in glaring light. Everything is changing, and I don't understand. What has broken? Slowly, her feet land on the ground. Her neck's crooked, but she’s closer now. I see the dark bruise on her neck. She strides away.

 I hear

Tap.
Tap.
Tap. 

With each sound, I’m assaulted with a memory. Memories that I had repressed but were coming back. I see us walking, with her neck perfectly straight, and I wonder why we are holding hands. I remember.

"Wait!" 

"Your Everything is Nothing." 

Another tap and I see a rope. Tap. I see her hanging. Tap. Her orange shoes hang limply above the ground. Tap. And I cannot look away. Tap. I am paralyzed, but all I see are those shoes. Tap. Orange shoes. Tap. Why can’t I do something? Tap. Why can’t I look away?

Because she is my Everything.

And my Everything is nothing. 

I wake up screaming, ranting, raving. I thrust myself against the walls, pounding them. They pour in, and pin me down. Their tone means to say it's okay, but it's not okay. Orange foot prints stain my vision. The world knows she was all that was left of me and it wants me to know that by taking her away. Sharp, glinting needles fade away along with my consciousness. I’m going back to the highlands.

They put me here because I’m afraid of the color orange. My fear is completely logical. 

Yet I'm here.

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Well, what did you think?
I didn't win with this story, but I didn't expect to. It was still a great experience, and the first short short story I have ever written.

Don't be afraid of the rubber duck,

Esther