How Pink Arrived at the Asylum

My parents talked about where I was going sadly, and made it seem like it was a punishment and I truly didn’t know what to expect. I had, of course heard all the horror stories about being sent to the colour asylum. People threw themselves off buildings for the kicks, people ate nothing but cake, people threw mud at one another for fun, people wore their pyjamas all day. Of course, to me, this never sounded quite as horrific as I knew it was supposed to.

The thing was, though, that as all my friends were growing up. Life was greying around me and I had no power to stop it. As the days ticked, ever quickening towards my 18th birthday and the hot pink on my head didn’t mellow, I had mostly reconciled myself to the life of a lunatic. I still got fits of giggles frequently, like last week for example when a man dropped a huge bag on tomatoes all over the road and a dozen people came to help him and they were all bent double chasing tomatoes down the street. I caused all the proper grown-ups to scowl and my parents to hide their faces in shame. No, the asylum could not be more of a punishment than living any more days in a life that told me my happiness was childish and crazy, even.

Mum cried on the day of my 18th when she came into my bedroom and saw that my hair was just as blaring pink as it ever was. I’m not quite sure why she expected a sudden change. She came and sat on my bed, which was covered in grey sheets. I had wanted the ones covered in colourful fish, but my mum had thought that at 15, I was days away from neutralising and wanting something plainer. Oh how wrong she was. She stroked my hair.

“I’m sorry honey.”

“It’s okay mum.”

If I was honest with myself, I was excited to see a new place. It wasn’t that I hated my life. I used to love it, and even as most of my friends had neutralised and become patronising to me, a child, I had been fine. I had Jenny. Jenny was my best friend and we had donned our pink hair proudly into our teenage years, revelling in our extended years of fun. All good things are destined to end though, it seems. Jenny’s hair had always been a bit more maroony, and without either of us really realising, it began to fade to auburn, and then to brown. I noticed her sallow mood and listless smiles before I realised the colour changing. Then she stopped wanting to go surfing.

“We can never stand up, what’s the point?”

We stopped running down hills and racing places.

“I’m tired.”

So she neutralised. Her parents were relieved. It was much better to be a late neutraliser, than to never do so. Like me. Only 0.001% of people neutralise after they are 18. Which is almost the same as saying they never do. I should probably care more than I do. If you haven’t neutralised you are considered a risk to society. Not because there is anything innately dangerous about fun, but we are an unknown quantity, not perceived to be able to use our powers of reason, always out for one more high. It is the addiction to fun, characteristic of children that is a danger. So we are locked away with others like us to laugh away the days of our lives. Technically, we are still allowed to function in society, but no self-respecting employer would offer you a job. It would be considered as foolish as employing a 5 year old, because of course, that is our permanent mental age. We weren’t supposed to have families, because the ‘condition’ was supposed to be genetic. Society didn’t need more eternal five year olds.

My parents were very good about it, and about a month before my 18th birthday they had sat me down and given me a choice. They had been trying really hard to treat me like a 17 year old, and not 7, like my orange haired brother. They really did their best.

“Annie, we aren’t giving up hope.” My dad had begun.

“But, your birthday is soon honey.” My mum had continued, hesitantly.

“We want you to have the choice. If you want to give it more time, we can try and help you find a job, you can have a normal life.”

But I had made up my mind. I didn’t want to the pitying stares, the concern and embarrassment for my parents. I felt normal and didn’t want to have to pretend that I didn’t. Maybe the asylum would be okay. People who wrestled on the sofa, people who stayed up until 2 pm watching comedy shows, people who told each other bedtime stories. How terrifying.

After the incident of my mum crying in my bedroom, my parents treated my birthday as if there was nothing wrong. We had our normal porridge breakfast, and my parents didn’t tell me off for dwadling and tracing shapes with my spoon. We had presents. A writing set from my parents - so that I could keep in touch; they also gave me a nice black scarf and my mum, bless her, had sewn on hot pink pom poms to the ends. My brother had made me a card covered in pressed flowers (and a few bugs) that he had collected and preserved from the garden. Jenny came round and we went on a long winding walk through the woods. I reminisced about the names we had given the different places, the games we had played, the fun we had had. She nodded, but did not enter my rapture. Then we watched a movie. Dad had bought one that wasn’t a documentary. It was an old comedy about a man and his talking horses. My brother and I laughed a lot. He choked on his popcorn because he laughed so hard. I don’t know how my dad found such a funny movie, because all that the shops sell these days are documentaries, or historical fiction or sometimes very serious romances. The popcorn was a nice treat too. Jenny hugged me awkwardly before she left. I appreciated the effort, people don’t generally hug, but I knew she was trying. I was happy when I went to sleep. My last day as a normal person had been nice. The hope of adventure was a nice thought to fall asleep to.

We drove out to the asylum early the next morning. I didn’t want to prolong the sad goodbyes. The building was bigger than I thought, and more modern. There was a huge outside courtyard and I thought I spied a pool. My dad parked and we went in. The woman at the desk was a little stout and dressed in grey, her dusty blonde hair pulled back neatly.

“How can I help you?” she asked, in a monotone, but not unfriendly tone. My mum shuffled awkwardly. My dad looked at her uncertainly and stepped forward.

“Erm, we are here to check in our daughter. We made an appointment.”

“Name?” asked the lady in grey, clacking quickly on her keyboard.

“Jones.”

“Ah yes. Well you can come with me if you’re ready Miss Jones.”

I turned to my parents. I don’t think any of us were quite ready. “Could we maybe look around with her?” My mum asked feebly.

“If you like.” Replied the woman. She didn’t actually smile, but her expression was comforting. She have dealt with so many parents each day who felt awful to be giving up their kids. Maybe she knew that most parents couldn’t handle seeing the life they’re leaving their child to. I suddenly began to feel nervous about what I was about to step into and was glad my mum and dad were coming in with me.

As we walked down the white corridor I began to notice laughter echoing from the rooms at the end. Unrestrained laughter. It sounded like my early school classes, except I couldn’t hear anyone telling them off. As we got neared the end of the corridor I began to smell amazing smells that were quite possibly cookies and the walls began to display incredible murals in a similar style to the graffiti that I’d sometimes see in town if I caught it on a day before it was painted over by the council. It was really beautiful and I could have spent hours staring at all the different people, animals and buildings that covered the walls and crept to the floor and ceiling. But the lady in grey whisked us past unseeingly.

A chorus of voices greeted ‘Miss,’ ‘Cornelia,’ ‘Miss Grey’ and a collection of bizarre nicknames that I didn’t catch. The lady in grey greeted them back politely. I hadn’t seen so much colour in people so old for so long and it wasn’t just their hair that was a rainbow of blues and greens, oranges and purples, but most of them wore colourful dresses, trousers, tops, scarfs and fun jewellery. Only one girl I saw was wearing black, but she wore it in such an interesting way. It was sleek and elegant with sparkling silver jewellery and thick eyeliner. It all contrasted nicely with her pale, orange-pink hair.

The lady in grey whisked me and my wide-eyed parents through a series of rooms filled with young people baking, painting, running around, playing cards boisterously and watching movies. Others were crying while reading books and making tables. They were almost all adults, but most of them were young. We then walked into a quieter room with computers and people sitting typing, or reading text books.

“Continued education isn’t compulsory here, but lots of inmates choose to take courses and lots of them achieve very highly and are very self-motivated.” The lady in grey told us as we swept through. We snaked through more corridors and suddenly came to a room that was labelled ‘Green’ and had a blank space below. I had noticed that similar doors had been labelled with lists of two or three colours on the doors.

“Come in.” A stern voice called from inside. The lady in grey pushed open the door.

“This is Green. She’ll be your roommate.” I politely extended my hand to where she was sitting on the top of a set of bunkbeds, reading a book, but she just raised an eyebrow at me. I withdrew my hand and she went back to reading. Green was tall and slender, and true to her name had electric green hair, braided in two plaits, she was wearing black dungarees, with a fitted lilac top underneath. She had a nose piercing and a choker necklace on as well. The room seemed to be decorated in her style, with some black and purple tapestries hanging from the ceiling and there was a woven purple rug on the floor. The bottom bunk was empty. I had brought my own bed sheets, but they were rather plain compared to Green’s which were pale blue covered in spirally suns. Where did everyone get all these cool clothes and things? My mum evidently had the same question and the lady in grey was explaining to my parents that there was an informal trading system in the asylum. One person would make furniture and trade it for clothes dyed by someone else. Others traded haircuts or piercings for others taking over their chores that week.

My mum turned to me “Are you okay honey?” she asked. I nodded. I didn’t want to be happy to leave my parents, but this place made a lot of sense to me.

“Okay. We’ll come visit you soon, and we’ll write a letter to you tomorrow.” My parents and brother hugged me and were then led out by the lady in grey.

“I’ll let you get settled in. Come find me if you need anything.” She said, and pulled the door, leaving me in the room with Green.

Once everyone had left Green put down her book. “So you’re pink.” She said.

“I guess so,” I said, fingering my ponytail.

“The bottom two drawers of that chest are empty.” She said, gesturing to a wooden unit opposite the beds. “Although I can’t imagine you’ll want to keep much of the stuff you brought with you.”

I unpacked my bag and made light chit-chat with Green. I found out she had been at the asylum six-months and was a year older than me. I suppose she had tried the normal life for a while before coming in.

Once I had finished I sat on the mustard coloured leather armchair in the corner.

“This place seems pretty well kitted out. Does the government pay for it?” I asked, letting the images of the rooms I walked through on my way in sink in. Green scoffed slightly. She was right to treat it as a ridiculous idea.

“The asylum is funded by Dimples Mauve. No-one really knows who he is except that he’s rich and crazy.” She said. “Come on. Let’s go find some food.” And so she lead me back through the maze of corridors. They would be indistinguishable if it weren’t for the graffiti spilling over the walls. As we left I saw that a piece of paper with the word ‘Pink’ written on it had been stuck under the name ‘Green.’