Short Story
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| Photo by Cassi Josh on Unsplash |
“I saw another one yesterday.”
Rick started the conversation in a bored, almost
indifferent tone. But before he spoke, the session began with his usual routine.
Rick stared at the floor for precisely 60 seconds after his therapist opened
the door and formally invited him into her office. He then darted across the
room to a leather couch, sliding across its length. In time, Rick came to rest
with his legs crossed at the ankles and both hands palm-down across his chest.
After Dr. Gillian Polk seated herself and opened her portfolio to a clean sheet
of white legal paper, he began with those words.
“I saw another one yesterday.”
Dr. Polk did not need an explanation.
“Where?”
“On the highway,” he said, “headed downtown. We were
driving to the museum, Cindy and me. I never saw one with my daughter around.”
Dr. Polk wrote on her pad as they chatted.
“What did you do?”
Rick twisted at the accusation, eager to defend his
response. “Nothing. I’m not going to kill anyone with Cindy nearby. Besides,
the glow was more of a mahogany, not the bright hue that tells me they’re
ready. Perhaps it was darker…
“No,” he confirmed, “it was mahogany. RGB 66, 13, 9.”
Dr. Polk wrote a note on his choice.
#83–MAHOGANY
“Mahogany, huh? I never heard you use that shade before.”
In over three years, her patient never described mahogany in his visions. Rick drew
in his chin while furling his brows as if the answer lay buried beneath the folds
and wrinkles of his face. Then, suddenly, he pulled upright and sat on the couch’s
edge with renewed energy sparked by his discovery.
“That’s right, doc! I had never seen that shade. What do
you think it means? Am I getting better?” Gazing around the room, Rick Metter
looked for a place to focus and regain his composure. He showed appreciation
for his doctor’s modest decor. “I like your office, doc. No red.”
Vibrant walls contrasted with the jet-black leather
furniture. Pastel paint blended into countless shades of banana, bamboo, and
early spring leaves in a festive display of bold colors. Dr. Polk’s library
volumes were bound in almost as many shades of blue—periwinkle and powder,
royal blue, even hues of ultramarine. The greens and violets countered dusty
earl gray in that kaleidoscopic paradise–every color imaginable.
Except for red.
Dr. Polk avoids red. Her clients hate it—they fear it—even
though they usually cannot see the color. If they might, red was best not
displayed. Rick reclined back and accepted the truth. “Mahogany is still a long
way off. No, it doesn’t mean I’m getting better. It just means my color wheel
is more refined.”
Before continuing, Doctor Polk noted, REFINED COLOR
WHEEL.
“More refined, Rick? How so?”
“I had to go online and find a new one that included that
shade. It took a while. They have to be RGB. I can’t stand HEX.” Rick squirmed on
the couch. Polk knows he despises talking about shades of red. But it was the
reason Rick came, so the conversation continued. The goal was to talk through
these issues before someone else had to die.
“Either they didn’t have that exact shade, like mahogany,
or they didn’t have one other. Burgundy is so hard to find, but I finally
located one with all my shades together.
“I needed to see how close it is to Pure Red. Nothing
happens until they get close to Pure Red.” Rick thought he was pretty clever,
tapping his index finger against his right temple to reinforce the point in
case his doctor didn’t pick it up. The word VALIDATION etched into her pad
indicated she did.
“Once I match my new shade, I can add it to my palette.
Do you have any idea how many shades of red there are, doc?”
“No, Rick, I do not,” she responded. Her manner seemed to
confirm his suspicion.
But that answer was not true.
Rick Metter was not Doctor Polk’s first patient with this
unique affliction. He was, however, the only one currently under her care. She
released all the others when they completed their treatment program. After 17
years, Doctor Polk was proud of her 100% success rate. Rick hoped she could keep
that streak alive. The 15 months it took to find her were the scariest in his
life.
Doctors diagnosed Rick as colorblind. Their assessment was
clinical, but not entirely accurate. With true colorblindness, a person will only
recognize shades of black and white. They suffer from a condition called complete achromatopsia. Rick was color vision deficient. He cannot see
shades of one color, red. Rick was blind to anything within that visible
spectrum of light. Like most with his condition, doctors diagnosed it when Rick
was a toddler. Unable to find the correct crayon; losing toys or articles of
clothing when they faded into pigmented background. In his case, the problem
went beyond an inability to pick up different shades. His mind ignored the
color as if nothing existed in its place. There wasn’t even a hazy image when
the child stared in the direction of his brother’s red baseball glove. Rick’s
mind did not acknowledge the empty void his eyes refused to penetrate.
Child psychologists thought it was an emotional response
to his difficulty interpreting the color. “Give him time,” they said. “There’s
no need to force the issue. He will grow out of it someday.” So, the Metter
family learned to live without red.
***
Shortly after Rick’s ninth
birthday, the worst snowstorm in a hundred years hit Castle Falls—a late-winter
surprise for the tiny town. While the city struggled to dig itself out, its children
played for days, deep within their juvenile metropolis. With drifts as high as eight
feet, they built elaborate networks of connecting tunnels, some running 90 or
100 feet before a hole burrowed to the top, offering the little adventurers a
much-needed air supply. Children remained buried in the intersecting web of
caverns for hours. Little Ricky had been in the tunnels for over 45 minutes
when he began to get nervous—quite a while had passed since he had seen or heard
anyone.
“It’s got to be getting dark by now,” he whimpered, but
there was no way to know. The overhead snowpack was thick. Three attempts to
dig through caused mini collapses, turning his panic into a frenzy. When his flashlight
dimmed, Ricky knew the battery did not have long. He picked up his pace.
Pulling a tight turn into a new route, the freighted boy
stopped and froze. In front of him, Annapaola Manetti peered into his eyes.
Just as scared and twice as cold, she smiled ear to ear at the sight of her
quirky classmate.
“Ricky,” she sighed, “thank God. My flashlight went dead,
and I can’t get out.”
“Woah!” was the only sound to escape his lips, his wide
eyes scanning Annapaola’s petite frame.
“Ricky! Ricky, come on! Ricky!”
“Anna. Sorry,” Ricky said. He was alert, but not entirely
out of his trance. “What are you wearing?” He was sure it was before winter
recess when they were last together outside the classroom.
“The same thing I always wear, silly.” Indeed, Anna wore the
same winter gear as always. At least since Christmas: her new coat, hat, scarf,
gloves, and boots.
He asked Anna about their color. She shrugged her
shivering shoulders.
“I don’t know. Some sort of red.”
Ricky had not noticed her for the last two months because
the clothing draped her in red. In that snow tunnel, in the fading glimmer of
their light, he bore witness to the most beautiful array of vibrant paints.
“Red...” Ricky’s voice trailed off again.
“I’m cold! Which way do we go, Ricky?”
Losing inhibitions, he picked a tunnel—one of three at
the intersection. Flashing his light in the intended direction, he grabbed her
gloved hand. “I think this is the way back,” he said, but Ricky still could not
take his eyes off Anna.
“That’s a beautiful color.”
Little Ricky woke up the following day, refreshed and
ready for more. With one utter, “Anna,” he bolted downstairs, eager to tell his
mother he saw red.
Sitting on their battleship gray couch, John consoled
Betty as she sobbed and beat her hands into his leg. Ricky stopped halfway down
the steps. “Mom?” His concern was genuine–his innocence sincere.
John popped up at the sound of his son’s voice. “Rick,”
he ordered, “take care of your mother.”
“Where are you going?” was an unnecessary question as his
father pulled on a dusty brown parka with a silver lining. “I’m joining the
others, and we’re gonna get rid of those goddamn tunnels.” Ricky wanted to ask
why. He wanted to beg his father to stop, but words failed the boy. Trailing
his fingers down the moss-green wall, he did what he was told. A frightened son
cared for his grieving mother in silence.
They found Anna buried beneath eight feet of snow. The
weight of the drift collapsed a tube she was inside. Fortunately, no other
tunnels gave way–only the one. Anna died alone, cold, and frightened in the icy
tomb. Somewhere, she lost one of her fiery gloves.
***
“I remember that outfit,” Rick
continued his conversation with Dr. Polk. “It was red. Bright blood red; not a dark
tone like I’m told they use in movies, but the sharp color blood boasts when
it’s saturated with oxygen–full of life. I needed to see more.”
“But you never saw oxygen-saturated blood?” Dr. Polk
challenged his clinical description. As if time stood still, nothing moved
while the two played out the chain of events once again.
“No. When I grabbed her throat, she jumped back against
the walls. I guess the tunnel was a hair away from caving in. Anna pushed it
over the edge.”
“But you made it out?” Polk prodded Rick’s story forward.
“The collapse only covered my legs. I shook them free and
continued down the tunnel.”
“And you never want back to check on your friend?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not true, Rick. We’ve reviewed this before. Confront
the story.” Polk knew the answer, but it was her patient’s story to tell.
“I was afraid I would see her. I would see her red.”
“And if you did?”
“I would need more.”
The conversation was no longer limited to questions and
answers. “You chose not to go back.” The doctor summarized the rest of Rick’s
story. “You did not go back. You didn’t find red. Instead, you made it out of
the tunnel and ran home. You told no one it buried Anna alive.”
“No, but the news the next morning did not surprise me.”
“Nor did it frighten you.”
“No.”
“Then where does the description of oxygen-rich blood come
from?”
“Doctor…,” Rick pleaded.
“The ‘mesmerizing sharp color blood boasts when it’s
saturated with oxygen’ was how you described it. Where does that knowledge come
from?”
“Why do I have to tell this story every single time?” The
anguish on his face was far from the apathy he carried into the appointment.
“Cradle to grave, Rick. Cradle
to grave.” The therapist’s tone
turned instructional. “We’ve talked about this. We will only get past your
mania if we visit the problem cradle to grave. There was no need for Rick to
reply. It was the same direction their sessions always took. To end the
nightmare, he needs to describe its lifecycle.
“I understand.”
“Where did that knowledge come from?”
“Carmine.”
***
Rick was a 23-year-old graduate
student when he met Carmine. PMS 150, 0, 24.
The only sound heard from the corner of their world was
Rick’s deep, forced exhale as he closed his textbook, Variational Methods of
Applied Mathematics, and slumped against the chair.
“Dante!” Rick screamed with both eyes closed, extending
the last syllable of his cry while he stroked his temples.
In an equally drawn-out wail, his roommate wasted no time
firing back. “What?”
“I fucking hate math.”
“No, Rick, you don’t,” Dante reminded him. “You love it.
Besides, it’s the only thing you’re good at, dumb ass.” Dante was right on both
accounts. Rick loved math. It was the only subject where colors did not cloud
his mind. The answers were right/wrong, one/zero; you could even say black/white.
Even when forced outside of a purely numerical existence, he could still
consider the statistical and mathematical modeling of real-world scenarios.
Everything translates numerically–even blood.
Rick knew he was right, but wasn’t ready to give in to Dante’s
argument.
“I need a break. We need a break. Beer!” It was the only solution.
“You buying?”
“As usual, you cheap bastard.”
Dante was already double-knotting his second shoe when he
heard those magic words. He grabbed his jacket off the hook and bolted out of
his room towards the front door. “Let’s go, geek,” he said, flicking Rick in
the ear on his way past. “This nerd needs a beer.”
***
Grimes Pub was less than a quarter-mile
walk from the apartment Rick and Dante rented—a typical college town: cheap
housing and plenty of bars. Grimes was the perfect break after a long week of
finals. The two boys needed a jumpstart before the last exam.
“I’m telling you, Dante,” their conversation continued, “it’s
the same. You can apply the Perturbation Theory equally to both the Asymptotic
Methods of Non-Linear Dynamics and Linearized Quantum Mechanics.” Rick bounced
along, crafting his explanation as his fingers drew and stacked invisible boxes
in front of his friend’s field of view. “All you have to do is break the
problem down into smaller, solvable parts.”
Dante remained unconvinced. His “All you have to do...”
response was more mocking than validating the summary. Not lost in translation,
his sarcasm only egged Rick on more.
“…then, my friend, you stack the answers together.”
“I don’t even know what the problem is.”
“It’s just math, Dante.”
Both stopped when they reached the pub’s front door. With
one hand on Rick’s shoulder, Dante took a deep breath and pleaded, “Stop, man.
Please stop talking about math for a couple of hours, okay? I’m never going to
grasp these theoretical models, not like you. I’ve never even seen you get a
question wrong. That’s your world.”
Dante’s tone sharpened, “Me? I don’t give a fuck. I want
to pass this class so I can crawl back into my world of AI modeling. You can
stay buried in numbers and wherever they’re taking you.”
Rick nodded. It was the slightest sign he understood
Dante’s words, but it was clear his mind was still deconstructing and
conditioning algorithms. However, his attention snapped to Dante’s face when he
felt the pressure of his friend’s hand soften and slide down his arm.
“Let’s not talk math right now. Okay?” Rick’s affirmation
was more deliberate.
“There are a lot of people inside. Stick close to me.
There is one step to the door. Slide your foot along until you feel it, then
step up. Okay?”
Rick nodded.
“We’ve done this a thousand times before. Let’s get our
drink on.
Without saying a word, Rick nodded and lifted a nervous
smile. Dante turned towards the door, with his friend close behind. When Dante uttered,
“Step,” Rick watched his friend’s foot rise three inches above absolutely
nothing and slowly walk across an empty void. He had indeed climbed that void a
thousand times before, yet fear gripped Rick as his feet slid forward until
they bumped into, then stepped up onto, the bright red entranceway. He refused
to look down as he walked along, only relaxing when they entered Grimes Pub.
Based on everything Rick told him about his condition,
Dante often gauged how difficult a crowded place would be. He thought that day
was going to be easy. Grimes Pub was a dingy spot. Dark wood bar, shiny brass
rail, peppered by a few loose chairs. Black and brown. He could tell summer was
right around the corner when he stepped through the front door. College kids packed
the room wearing their brightest bounty of clothing–lots of whites, blues, and
pastels. Dante never worried when he noticed clothes with red letters or
designs. They came across as speckled images in an otherwise recognizable form—like
an old-school television with poor reception. There was one exception.
“Rick,” he said while pointing. “See that big, floating
bald head over there?”
Rick had to chuckle at the description. “Fat man with a red
shirt?”
“Yeah. Fat man with a red shirt.” Deadpan humor worked
best in some situations.
Broken images bullied Rick as a child, but they were
commonplace by then. As long as his brain could recognize the larger image and
understand what probably was, or should be, in the void, there was no problem. He
figured that afternoon would be good with only one danger in the bar.
As he enjoyed his first sip of beer, Rick focused on
movement far back in the bar. He nudged Dante with an elbow to his rib cage.
“Look at that,” he demanded, pointing at the commotion.
“Look at what?” There was nothing of the ordinary.
“Fireflies. It’s a bunch of fireflies dancing around that
girl.”
“Dude, I don’t see any fireflies. Do I have to cut you
off already?” Dante played along. “Which girl?”
With an agitated thrust of his finger, he poked the air
in her direction again. “Her,” Rick said. “The brunette, the long
straight-haired brunette. The one who hasn’t stopped talking since we walked
in.
With an approving tone, Dante commented, “Ooh, she looks
like a feisty one.” Dante’s description of his next moves if she took him home
made Rick chuckle. He knew his friend had never picked up a woman in a bar. He
probably never picked up a woman anywhere.
“But she’s definitely out of your league, Rick. Besides, those
aren’t fireflies, doorknob. She’s a ‘hand talker’ going on a mile a minute. You
just can’t see anything because of her nail polish.”
But he could. Rick didn’t need a moment to muster enough courage
to introduce himself. Leaving his beer on the bar, he bolted towards the back.
Rick never considered waiting for a pause in her conversation. Instead, he stretched
his hand before closing the distance between them, softly cupping her petite
palm with his.
“What color is this?”
The woman was thrown by the confrontation, unable to move
and only willing to say, “Huh?”
Rick’s awareness caught up with him.
“Sorry. Hi, I’m Rick. What color is this?”
“Hi, Rick. I’m Tracy.” Tracy’s reaction was positive, but
neither her friend nor Dante, who finally caught up, could understand the
reason. Fear? Attraction? Curiosity? They were all reasonable possibilities.
“Do you like ’em? I had my nails done this afternoon. They’re a gift to myself
because,” her volume pitched to a scream, “Finals Are Over!”
The proclamation drew a resounding “Wooooooo” from three-quarters
of the pub. Dante did not celebrate; he had his Applied Mathematics final in
the morning. Rick remained calm as well; his fascination with Tracy’s fingers
was the reason.
“But what color are they?”
“Uhm, red,” she giggled.
“That’s not any shade I’ve seen before.”
“How many shades of red have you seen?”
“One.”
Tracy looked confused by the answer but never gave it a
second thought. There was too much fun in store for that night—too much steam
to let off after a long, grueling term. She grabbed Rick’s shirt by the
midsection and pulled his body close. Only after a prolonged kiss, once her
tongue savored every morsel of Rick’s mouth and lips, did Tracy pull her head
back and answer the question.
“The salon lady called it Carmine. I got my toes done,
too. Look!” She fell into his arms and lifted her sandaled foot to eye level.
Blame it on the alcohol, the celebration, or the skinny geek with such an odd pickup
line, Tracy pushed on with a wink. “I got the full salon treatment today. Want
to see?”
Dante’s jaw dropped when he watched his friend scamper
behind the buxom brunette with fresh Carmine–painted nails. She gulped her
drink before leading Rick out of Grimes' Pub through the unpainted side door.
Dante’s friend reappeared two minutes before their exam
began.
Rick aced it.
Tracy became a permanent fixture in their apartment.
She was never without Carmine.
***
“And do you remember how that
made you feel?”
Dr. Polk knew how he felt when Tracy stopped wearing her
Carmine nail polish. The story was Rick’s to detail, however. He needed to tell
the entire story if there was a chance for closure.
Fighting through his sobs, Rick hid both hands inside his
blazer and continued.
“I didn’t know what to do. We had been dating for three
months; Tracy knew all about my issue. She couldn’t find that brand anywhere. I
honestly believed her, even though it broke my heart. I lost my fireflies.”
He continued to tell the story of how Tracy and Dante
hunted for a replacement for Carmine. The manufacturer had discontinued that polish
for “lack of demand.” Dante broke the code when he discovered the perfect color
palette online and shared it with his friend.
“He was a software engineering student, so his computer
setup was nice. He called it a ‘QHD’ monitor, I think. Ultrahigh resolution.
Anyway, he found a palette with Carmine on it. 150, 0, 24. I’ll never forget
the smile on his face as I gazed upon the nearly empty screen.
“‘That’s it,’ I told him. ‘That’s my firefly!’ One
beautiful square appeared in the middle of nothing until my eye caught a second
image in the top right corner. ‘What’s that called?’ I asked.
“‘That, my friend, is red. Pure Red. 255, 0, 0.’
“And there they were. Tracy and Anna, together. It turned
out to be the cruelest of scenarios.”
Dr. Polk wrote as Rick continued to talk, capturing his conversation
with emotions.
CRUELEST.
TEASING.
FLEETING.
OUT OF REACH.
ESCALATING.
Rick realized his condition was not physical. It was in
his mind, perhaps his heart. He never discovered Carmine again in the real
world. Carmine only reappeared as a two-dimensional image on a palette. Tracy
tried but could never reconnect the color in Rick’s mind. Similar nail polish,
eyeshadow, clothing…they were just empty voids. Once Carmine disappeared, it
never returned.
“I remember when she came home with Crimson on her lips.
184, 15, 10. We had been playing that game for a while. We thought it was fun.
Try to ‘recapture the passion’ we experienced with Carmine. I wonder if our
recklessness was to blame for everything that happened.”
Dr. Polk noted his change in tone. She marked the highs
he found when revisiting each of their discoveries.
#199 CRIMSON 184, 15, 10.
#415 CHILI RED 194, 24, 7.
#537 IMPERIAL 237, 41, 57.
She noted the heartache Rick described whenever a color
faded to nothing, marked only as a new entry on his palette.
“The night we discovered Candy Apple 255, 8, 0 was when I
first looked forward to losing the vision of that shade off Tracy’s luscious
lips. If our pattern held, I was mathematically destined to reconnect with Pure
Red 255, 0, 0.”
“Did you rediscover Pure Red?” Dr. Polk asked, probing
for an answer she already knew existed.
“I did.” There was a certain satisfaction with the doctor
when one of her patients achieved self-realization. If Rick was going to heal
himself, he must confront his fears.
“And where did you find that mesmerizing sharp color
blood boasts when saturated with oxygen, Rick?” Dr. Polk leaned forward and
repeated the question. She closed her eyes and waited to savor her patient’s
response.
“You have to hurry. The color fades from Pure Red so
fast.” Rick looked around the office, but salvation was not in sight. The doctor
was going to make him repeat it. He turned to catch her stare as she braced to
hear the words, the tip of her tongue grazing across the Black Olive lipstick
she used to conceal her temptation.
Rick laid back quietly, closing his eyes as he pulled both
hands under his chin. Still clutching the fiery glove he brings to every
appointment, he gave in to Gillian’s healing without reservation.
“When blood leaves the heart from the aorta, it is mesmerizingly
sharp. Tracy stopped moving, but her blood continued to pour. It poured from
her body until it momentarily immersed her in Pure Red.”
“And then what happened?”
“She was gone,” Rick sighed. “She faded away. There was
nothing but a blank void in her room.”
“What did you discover?”
There was no more anxiety in Rick’s voice. He carefully answered
his therapist’s questions. “I found Pure Red. It was inside Tracy all along. It
was inside each of them all along.”
As the erotic satisfaction grew inside Dr. Polk, she had
one last request.
“Tell me about each of them.”
For 45 minutes, Rick detailed every color that led him to
Pure Red.
Hibiscus 180, 55, 87
Desire 234, 60, 83
Salmon 250, 128, 114
Folly 255, 0, 79
Rick sobbed and his eyes grew bloodshot from the emotion.
Dr. Polk turned her chair away as she crafted her vision of each encounter that
climaxed in Pure Red.
“…and I’m afraid of what will happen to Mahogany the next
time we meet.” Rick collected his composure as their time ended. The session
was over, beginning his dreaded wait until their next appointment. But Rick
knew the routine; he knew the rules. Don’t talk, leave. As he turned back to
watch his therapist writhing to absorb the enormity of his actions, he hoped
she would be his salvation.
“I don’t want to live this way anymore,” he whispered.
“I promise you, Rick,” the doctor assured. “You won’t.”
A dormant sense of hope resurfaced in Dr. Polk’s patient,
a faint smile forming as he closed the door behind him. The doctor gasped her
first breath of air before attending to her session notes.
RICK METTER
PROGNOSIS: FINAL SESSION
ASSESSMENT: #682 TORCH RED 255, 0, 1
“I promise, Rick, you won’t live like this anymore.”
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