Stop Coloring My World!

This was written in response to an online challenge from Chuck Wendig of the Terribleminds blog. The task was to write a 1000 word story based upon a visual prompt. I chose the image above.

This turned into an experiment for me. I’ve never attempted writing metaphorically like this before. I hope you enjoy it.

———

I awoke this morning and I had to scream. A blood curdling scream. So visceral I surprised even myself. How could my world change so quickly without my knowledge. I had lived here in the world of shades for as long as time. And last night, without warning, without consideration, someone had painted the door red.

Without thought I conjured white. The thickest, whitest white I could imagine, and I painted. First in broad strokes, without care. In my fit it splattered the floor, wall, even myself. I eventually settled into a meticulous effort, finishing when all the trim and details were suitably white. I was elated. My world was as it should be once again.

The door had always been here. Where it opened, I did not know. Another world I suppose. I lacked the curiosity or compunction to discover what was beyond. The door was a part of my world, that I accepted. But I’d be damned if I would allow anyone to paint it. Especially red. Red of all colors I hated the most.

One might ask why? Why? Why? Why would I hate red? Does there need to be a why? Can’t I simply like or dislike without a why? Since this is my world, then I feel it is within my right to decline a why?

———

Scream, I did again the next morning. This scream was born more of the belly than the scream of yestermorning. This scream was born of anger. This scream was born of the innate knowledge that someone was trying, intentionally trying to change my world. My door was once again RED!

My comfortable world was vibrating with noise. The soothing calm of black fading to white was ignited by noise. Only the noise such a color as red could cause. Dripping. Painful. My door had again been painted red.

My rage conjured more white. Bright, viscous, and completely opaque. I threw myself at the red, swiping, slashing, stabbing with the brush until the red was no more. My rage abated along with my heavy breath. No more red. My world had returned to comfortable, and routine allowed red to fade from memory.

———

Roar this time I did. I awoke again to vile red splattered over the door, the jamb, and the floor. A sheen revealed the paint still in state of drying. How could this be? Who was this entity painting my door as I slumbered? And why me? Why change the world in which I live?

I conjured more white, and in my rage forgot the instrument of application. I flung the white against the door, using my hands to spread its opacity. The red would not fade. The white was not enough to blot out the red, which remained staining the edges of the door.

Rage boiled. Without thought, I clinched fists and roared at the door. Its quaking encouraged me further. The rage, my right, who dare change my world of shades and light. I roared again, this time shaking the door on hinges and handle. Fissures appeared, sharp and dark. The quake continued. Splinters and shards shattered. Only emptiness remained, deep and dark.

———

Next, I awoke to find a glow emanating from the door. Warmth as well. Red washed the floor, but soon I found orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet joining. Colors I never thought to see in my world of shades. I found the blue and violet to be soothing, similar to my shades. As they grew so did my calm.

Sounds were now emanating from the space formally occupied by the door. Pleasing sounds, not the infernal noises that I usually associate with color. Sounds that settled the soul.

The colors had always brought me fear, feeling they threatened the shades. As I watched, the black and the white, and all the shades between mixed with blue, orange, yellow, even the red. Becoming something else. Something new. The shades seemed — pleased, even more the better for it.

Violet remained close by my side, its soft vibrations soothing. Then, an inkling occurred. Was it the violet that I found soothing or was I soothing myself? Was that which had always frightened me out there, beyond the door, or was it inside me all along?

As I pondered this inkling further, my rage gave way to calm.

Perhaps peace would follow as well.