09-24-2008, 01:27 PM
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This was a pattern for Ahren. Even now, he wandered without reason or direction, following invisible lines and believing in nothing but the world around him. He needed to escape the sickness behind him, the blind man and his comatose son, strangers who had welcomed him in with no question. Why did he stay? For those people he was running from. How much sense did that make? “It doesn’t,” he said aloud, not hearing himself. Right. There’s no reason to stay.
I can’t, he thought, and spared a glance up at the dappled branches above his head. Some of the leaves were starting to turn. They were a thousand colors of green and Ahren didn’t see any of this. He saw nothing but gray and red, and those faint shades that shifted in and out. Being colorblind had never been an issue for him, having been forced to grow up with it. The others could see, and he knew that they could see he had no concept of these strange things called colors—of green, blue, purple, a thousand more he could not name. The memory of ‘blue’ and ‘yellow’ were faint, and probably wrong by this point. But he could see red. He could see the leaves that looked as if they were being swallowed by fire. “Quand les congés brûlent des fins d'été,” he said aloud, this time hearing himself, and wondering where he had read that before.
This was a pattern for Ahren. Even now, he wandered without reason or direction, following invisible lines and believing in nothing but the world around him. He needed to escape the sickness behind him, the blind man and his comatose son, strangers who had welcomed him in with no question. Why did he stay? For those people he was running from. How much sense did that make? “It doesn’t,” he said aloud, not hearing himself. Right. There’s no reason to stay.
I can’t, he thought, and spared a glance up at the dappled branches above his head. Some of the leaves were starting to turn. They were a thousand colors of green and Ahren didn’t see any of this. He saw nothing but gray and red, and those faint shades that shifted in and out. Being colorblind had never been an issue for him, having been forced to grow up with it. The others could see, and he knew that they could see he had no concept of these strange things called colors—of green, blue, purple, a thousand more he could not name. The memory of ‘blue’ and ‘yellow’ were faint, and probably wrong by this point. But he could see red. He could see the leaves that looked as if they were being swallowed by fire. “Quand les congés brûlent des fins d'été,” he said aloud, this time hearing himself, and wondering where he had read that before.