Colours
01.
She tied a red ribbon upon her finger so that she wouldn't forget.
She did this often, as she was quite forgetful. She used to use rubber bands but they gave her bad circulation so she stuck to a multitude of coloured ribbons.
Today's colour was a dark crimson.
The colour of blood, the colour of romance. The colour of an apple, the colour of her father's shiny new car. The colour red could be tied to anything, but today it was tied onto her finger. It could be referring to the red leaves that fell from the maple trees, it could be referring to the colour of her jacket.
Only she knew.
Walking home, music playing through her green earphones (that was yesterday's colour), her mood changed from happy to somewhat nostalgic and apathetic. The leaves crunched beneath her feet, her yellow boots collided with a puddle and sent water splashing everywhere.
The same old street; the same old faces; the same old people. Would it ever change? It seemed the only thing that changed around here were her ribbons. And even that still followed a pattern. It was montonous. Everything here was a constant, spinning cycle that started with blue at the beginning of the week and ended with a dark crimson red.
A car came speeding past, and she jumped a little bit. She looked up at the light blue sky, and black shadows of the birds flew quickly above. Turning down her oh-so-familiar street, as she
walked past the houses she counted.
43. 46. 48. 50.
As she reached 52, her feet took her up the same path it always did at this time of day and her hands snaked their ways into her left pocket as usual. Clutching at her keys and drawing them from her pocket like removing a sword from a sheath, she unlocked the door and heard a familiar click.
Once inside, she put her things in their places, and headed into the living room, to watch the same show that she did every single day without fail. However, when she reached the couch, she stopped. She brought her hands to her face, and spied the red ribbon that was coiled around her index finger.
She had tied it there to remember, but what exactly had she forgotten? And what use was it being there anymore? Why did everything have to be the same? Was there no change? A friend of hers had always told her that the world was constantly changing, but she didn't seem to see it.
Slowly and carefully, like ripping off a plaster from your finger, she took it from her finger and dangled it in front of her warm chocolate brown eyes before letting go and dropping it on the floor.
A twisted, red ribbon lay on the white carpet.
The girl was free.
She did this often, as she was quite forgetful. She used to use rubber bands but they gave her bad circulation so she stuck to a multitude of coloured ribbons.
Today's colour was a dark crimson.
The colour of blood, the colour of romance. The colour of an apple, the colour of her father's shiny new car. The colour red could be tied to anything, but today it was tied onto her finger. It could be referring to the red leaves that fell from the maple trees, it could be referring to the colour of her jacket.
Only she knew.
Walking home, music playing through her green earphones (that was yesterday's colour), her mood changed from happy to somewhat nostalgic and apathetic. The leaves crunched beneath her feet, her yellow boots collided with a puddle and sent water splashing everywhere.
The same old street; the same old faces; the same old people. Would it ever change? It seemed the only thing that changed around here were her ribbons. And even that still followed a pattern. It was montonous. Everything here was a constant, spinning cycle that started with blue at the beginning of the week and ended with a dark crimson red.
A car came speeding past, and she jumped a little bit. She looked up at the light blue sky, and black shadows of the birds flew quickly above. Turning down her oh-so-familiar street, as she
walked past the houses she counted.
43. 46. 48. 50.
As she reached 52, her feet took her up the same path it always did at this time of day and her hands snaked their ways into her left pocket as usual. Clutching at her keys and drawing them from her pocket like removing a sword from a sheath, she unlocked the door and heard a familiar click.
Once inside, she put her things in their places, and headed into the living room, to watch the same show that she did every single day without fail. However, when she reached the couch, she stopped. She brought her hands to her face, and spied the red ribbon that was coiled around her index finger.
She had tied it there to remember, but what exactly had she forgotten? And what use was it being there anymore? Why did everything have to be the same? Was there no change? A friend of hers had always told her that the world was constantly changing, but she didn't seem to see it.
Slowly and carefully, like ripping off a plaster from your finger, she took it from her finger and dangled it in front of her warm chocolate brown eyes before letting go and dropping it on the floor.
A twisted, red ribbon lay on the white carpet.
The girl was free.
♠ ♠ ♠
Just... a drabble of sorts. I started writing and the words started flowing. It's 3:50 am and I'm tired.