Color

By Hannah Robinson

The figure didn’t show its face. Just stared at me from the void-like eye cavities of a ghoulish white mask. “Don’t be afraid.” The mask distorted its voice, and I trembled. It stepped toward me then crouched to my level. “You’ve lost much, lad. But come with me, and you’ll no longer feel the pain. Would you like that?”

Terrified speechless, I nodded.

Gentle as a breath, its pale hand touched my shoulder, changing everything. Warmth flowed into my skin, my blood, my bones. All the fear raging inside shrank into a tiny, pressurized ball—volatile, but forgettable. The world darkened until I could only see shadows, outlines, shapes. But I didn’t mind. I could feel.

Feel the world, without the pain.

My initiation haunts my dreams, though years stand between me and the moment that recruiter’s touch sucked me into the rebellion. Sometimes it doesn’t seem that long. Other times, I feel I’ve always been sheltered in this darkness, initiating new rebels, reaching out with groping fingers for the next mission.

Or the next message.

My hands graze a cold, metal wall. I pause, sensing something no eye can detect, yet something my fingers recognize. Words, scratched faintly into the finish. New recruit at station for initiation. The wind hasn’t yet dissipated the thin dust from the carving. This message is recent.

With the back of my hand, I trace the wall for fingerprints and find one I recognize. Asha, our best recruiter. This new captive must be top-notch. Keeping my fingers on the wall, I wind through alleys, back to our station.

Something wet drips onto my scalp, and I look up from the shadows of the city.

Blue.

Since my initiation, the world has appeared grey. Except blue things. Blue is the one color they let me keep. As pocketfuls of sky peek through dark storm clouds, I pause, remembering.

Picnics under cloudless skies.

Fish in clear water.

My mother’s eyes, closing as life slipped from her lips, the day everything crumbled.

I shake myself. That life of color was dangerous. It’s why they gave me blue. So I’d never forget why I left.

I trace the station door’s frame until I find the warmest spot. The hidden doorbell. When I press it, the door creaks open.

“Welcome back, Oneius.” The voice, like all our voices, is distorted by the mask. But the three-tap code on my shoulder identifies Asha. “You got my message.”

“I’m here to perform the initiation.”

“In the Chamber.”

I place my hand against the low ceiling and follow the faintest carved line into the labyrinth. After several turns, it fractures into lines of varying thicknesses, running different directions. I keep my fingers pressed to the correct one—the width of spider silk. It leads me straight to the Chamber.

Usually, the Chamber is pitch black, but today, a speck of light sears the darkness. This recruit has a candle. She’s muttering to herself, feeling the walls for an exit.

“Don’t waste your time. You can’t escape.” I approach, and she turns to me.

Blue.

She blinks azure eyes. “Who are you?”

“Your new trainer.”

Her breath trembles.

“Are you frightened? It’ll fade soon. Join us. There’ll be no more pain, no more fear.” I place my hand on her shoulder. She’s quivering, like most initiates. But unlike the others, she doesn’t relax after I’ve touched her.

“Join us,” I repeat, a vague, nervous flutter stirring deep in my stomach. My touch should be enough to initiate her. To dim her sight, heighten her touch, dull her pain. Make her one of us. Why isn’t it working? “You’ve just lost someone. Don’t you want to escape your grief?”

“Escape like you? Into a prison of darkness?” She shakes her head. “I’d rather grieve in the light.”

The capsule of fear I’d locked away years ago begins to vibrate. This has never happened before. My touch should’ve pulled her into our rebellion against feeling—against fear, against pain, against all those volatile human emotions that wrecked us all.

“Join us!” My voice wavers like her candlelight.

She holds the candle toward me. “Join me. Out there.”

Asha must’ve made a mistake. Something’s clearly wrong with this recruit. “If you won’t join us…” I seize her arm, my palms sweating. She’s cold. Tense. Like me.

She doesn’t move. “Hide from pain, and in the process lose my chance for hope? Hide from night and miss the sunrise? Never. Life is beautiful, colorful… if you let yourself experience it.”

“I’ve had my fill of that life. It’s better this way.”

“No.” She leans closer, facing me with those deep-blue crystals. “There’s more. If you open yourself to it.”

Open myself? How? I can’t just will myself to see the world the way I used to. They took that ability. Left me seeing nothing but shadows and blue. Feeling nothing but the consoling warmth of darkness.

But now…

Fear. It’s shaking the bars of the cage I put it in. And breaking through.

Her breath tickles my ear. “If you let yourself feel your fear, perhaps someday you’ll conquer it.”

Orange.

Her hair is orange.

Her cheeks are rosy. The flame, yellow. Her dress, green. The scar across her face, red.

But her eyes are… cloudy. Unfocused. Fluttering. Turned toward me but not seeing me.

Breathless, I pull off my mask. “You’re… blind.”

“Yes.”

“But… the candle…”

“Is for you.” She pushes it into my hands.

“And… the things you said, about sunrise and color… You can’t see them?”

She smiles, something I haven’t seen in years. “Sunrise is more than color.” Her fingers close around mine. Gentle. Warm. “And color is more than sight. It’s promise. Truth. Life.”

Something wet trickles down my cheek, and I swipe it away. Tears. I’d forgotten about those.

“Come on.” Her grip tightens. “Let’s go live.”

Color fills my soul, and I smile, remembering. “Let’s go feel.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hannah Robinson is a YA fantasy author who loves spinning tales of royal intrigue, assassins, and, of course, dragons. She has won several writing awards through Florida Christian Writers Conference, including 2019 Writer of the Year. When she’s not writing, she enjoys exploring nature, making music, reading old books, and drinking lots of tea.

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