Colorless Chapter 1

Hair waving in the wind, waist-length black mantle slapping the night air, weeds whipping my bare hands. It felt free. I’m too far away, so I don’t know if he’s looking for me. The only person I can read is a man knitting socks. I fall back into the long grass, sitting up to look at the small farmhouse. Peeking up over the yellow plants, I see hints of red and a lone light on, in the second floor window.

The old man’s a farmer. This year, he decided on wheat, a grain that can be turned into bread. He always saves the first loaf for himself. Oh, I’m in a wheat field. I bite a stock out of curiosity. It does not taste like bread. It tastes like hollow grass. I bring myself back to the old man. He’s tired, but he wants to look comfortable when his daughter comes to visit so she doesn’t insist on hiring help. I put the thought in his mind that she just wants the best for him. She’s going to be worried, anyways. He liked to remember the house as shiny and red, freshly painted. But, what confused my eyes, was the large rusted home that had clearly been neglected.

He tucks the socks in the drawer and decides to look out the window once more. The wheat field was quiet and waving, relaxing his old soul. But a figure stands, staring at him.

I hit the ground, but he’s already reaching for the phone to call Lyon Wise. I didn’t dig into Lyon’s identity, assuming he was someone I should fear. I scramble like a deer running from the cheetah’s claws. I’m not in danger yet, but I’m just avoiding the problem altogether. But I tripped. The wheat and dirt hit my face and scraped my cheeks. I want to cry, the feeling of wheaty knives running along my cheeks.

I get up, rubbing my eyes and letting tears clean the new wounds. I didn’t have to run. I ran, and now I’m here. Perhaps disillusion is the way to live. Perhaps there’s a good reason so little people have eyes like mine. I wonder how roses can stand being pink.

I get back to running, even as silence took over the area around me. Nobody is chasing me. I escape the wheat and run into what I assume is a safe place: a wooden shed with a hole in the side. I crawl in like a puppy hiding from an angry master and throw myself in the corner. The room was full of black orb-like creatures with many legs, and a few butterflies with large mouths. Snuggling up to myself, ignoring the floor of rotting wood, I close my eyes.

As the scent of burning lavender fills my nose, I know I’ll be fine. I feel calm, too calm. A type of calm that refuses to let me move.

“Darling, where’s my knockout cigars?” She put her hand atop her shoulder, waiting patiently.

“Here, Lyon.” She places the small brown tube in her hand.

“Thank you.” She lights the cigar, and my powers fade along with me.

Dad was right, they would hunt me for my eyes.