Indigo

23 Feb

By Cassidy Cole
7th Grade

“Look at how this daisy looks against the clouded horizon,” I said as I dipped my toes in the puddles, running across the grass, imagining I was flying. “But see,” I said, “look at it against the grass.” I drooped it just above the dirt, nestled in all that green. “It just drowns in all that dewy… boredom.” I plopped down in the mud. I just noticed then that there was actually no one there to listen, or even someone to say something to.

I guess I wasn’t “that kind of fairy.” I don’t paint that radiant sky with all those normal fairies. Everywhere I look, white fairies, white houses, and white walls within those white houses. I am like a cow in a herd of sheep, like I am the definition of disparity itself. I always wonder why the roses that are painted black are then dyed white. Because it is apparently too dark feeling.

I look up in the sky, wiggling my fingers in front of me trying to touch that spot where the mountain air meets the sun’s rays, like it is that top shelf where the cereal was put by your big brother, knowing that you would never be able to get it. My mama told me when I was a child that I would be stuck with painting grass, because I was the color of dirt. Maybe that’s why they left me, because that dirt tracked in from the yard would always get their shoes dirty.

Now it’s just the grass and me. The grass, and its moist green color, that reminds me of a saddened child. But I don’t know why it reminds of a crying child…It might be a sudden manifestation of my imagination…or is it me? Am I that crying child? I shook my head free of that thought, it just brought up more thoughts…and at the time I just didn’t feel like thinking.

I kept dancing. I crawled on the raindrops. I held my paintbrush, yet another psych of my imagination, and stroked the air like I was painting the sky. Oh, how I love the sky. It glistens against air like broken glass. I shook my head again…more thoughts, more memories.

“Catch me…” I screamed at the sky, but what I want most is to be carried up to the horizon, fly me into the arms of the air.

I made sure that every time I swung my toes in the mud ahead, it would land in the front of my other toes, and…he…would say the other toes would be sure to follow. I watched how my right foot would always follow my left foot. I leaped, it followed, I ran, still followed, I skipped, still followed. I fell, bruised, but still followed.

“Hey, Indigo.” I whipped my head back. Someone said something…to me? My heart was beating like a moth’s wings.

“I am so sorry for your diseased skin!” that someone shouted. “It must be hard to look like the night, like you tripped into a bucket of the paint meant for mud. Did you try bathing? You just look so stained and like beauty was defiantly not on your side. You are just a plain mistake.”

Tears streamed down my “diseased” face. I trembled. I looked down at my hands, my muddy hands and my muddy feet…my muddy heart? Did he mean my heart?

I hurled my helpless body into the creek. I strenuously scrubbed, trying to rub the color out of my skin.

“Mistake.” I repeated. “Mistake, mistake, mistake. I am a plain mistake. Mistake, mistake, mistake.”

I cried. I squealed. I screamed. I filled the creek with my tears. He was right. I am diseased. I am muddy. Beauty was the oil to my water. I am a mistake. I wanted to run to the oak tree where he was, well where he used to be. Owen was he, the used to be he. I held onto my arms with great strength as if my hands were his, caressing his words, “You are beautiful. You are strong. You are kind. You are bright. You are Indigo.”

Owen. I didn’t like to say his name too ordinarily, it would always spill memories and thoughts into my mind, and at most times my tears would drown them in the liquid of my mournfulness. He flinched at this world. “This world,” he told me, “is trying to tell smoke from steam. When we are stripped of the dust we call skin, we all have the same flesh, the same blood and the same bones.”

He always spoke about escaping to where the mountain air meets the sun’s rays. Just him and me he always said, just him and me. He told me we were going to paint our names in mountainous letters across the sky, showing the eyes of the blind that we are beautiful. We are strong. We are kind. We are bright. We are Owen and Indigo. Hear us roar.

I watched my reflection of my face in the water. I swooped my fingers in the water where my face was mirrored. My face felt like a spider web. Stretched across to different things. I was stretched between the same thing though…disparity. I felt weak. I felt hurt. I felt like nothing. I felt lost.

Owen left me with the words “I love you.” I love you. I love you. I don’t quite know where he went. I always told myself, “You’re not alone. He’s still here. You’re not alone.” I always told myself lies, but I always knew when they weren’t the truth. I was alone. He wasn’t still here.

I slipped out of the creek. Red patches infecting my skin, my diseased skin. I ran to the oak tree where I was left with few words, where Owen would cry, where I would cry.

There I saw it. Etched into the trunk of the tree. “We are beautiful. We are strong. We are kind. We are bright”

I am night. Night is the only time where people look the same. When the state of peace emerges from the creases of clouds. Beauty was on my side, inner beauty, and the more gorgeous one. I am stained. Stained with strength, stained with kindness, and stained with brightness. I am meant to be, not a mistake.

Within a second, my name streaked across the sky.

“I-N-D-I-G-O”

Indigo.

Hear. Me. Roar.

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