Pie Car

By, hionlife

abstract!color!fic written on a rainy day. Yes, its raining. In december. On the north shore. Gotta blame that on the global warming. :)


He realizes this night, that he can't remember what color the walls in their kitchen were. His bedroom walls were dirty blue, hardly visible for the posters and furniture. The living room was gray and the bathroom, shared with his brother, had little kid wallpaper with cartoon dogs and school buses. But his father had a penchant for painting that kitchen and would do so at least once a year, as if changing the look of the walls would change what happened there.

As far back as he can remember the room was first a cheerful red, a hue that he can't name except for its electricity. It sang with energy. Alcohol in the red room was consumed with laughter and smiles. They clung to it and lingered there. He liked the red and didn't see any reason to change it.

But then his father chose a deep, wood grain brown. The brown walls were angry, like slammed doors and broken glass and echoes of voices. The room is not happy, but he sits quietly at the table anyway, watching these walls absorb shadow and light and feels comfortably calm.

Next was green. Opaque, forest, all encompassing green. It feels claustrophobic, dense and deep. These walls annoy him with their oppressiveness, but if he stays long enough, it's almost like a hug and he feels awed by the wise mystery.

After that, there is an argument, a single morning on the lakefront and everything that came after.

He vaguely recalls now, that on one of the infrequent times at home, the kitchen walls were suddenly white. White and clean and blank like a canvas waiting for its art. He questions his dad on the choice and receives a sarcastic glare in return.

"We painted this together a month ago Chris. You picked white."

He replies stupidly, something about having too many and making sure his dad is paying attention, but inside his guts twist and he stumbles quickly to the bathroom, where the cartoon dogs laugh at him mockingly. He avoids the white room, because it reminds him of something hidden and evil, like willowy magic.

After that, there is fighting, a single day at Daggermouth and everything that came after.

And all he can remember is blanks and empty spaces, something and nothing, and white walls without end.


Note: Christopher always ends up a little (ok a lot) sad when I write him. Ah well. I am not near so profound as I think I am. Hey! Birthday in a few days, make me happy! -hi