Status: short story
Colour Blind
prologue
Lyle Webber was a respectable man. He spent his whole life working hard and getting his hands dirty; always pulling me out of trouble and lying to my Pa. He was my best friend, the closest person to me in the world, a friend and a brother all at once.
He had hands the colour of coffee beans; all rough and callous from working outdoors, nails nibbled down to the flesh and scratches on his palms. They were smaller than mine but somehow large enough to take the pain away; large enough to grab the baggage off of my shoulders and toss it aside.
He was kind. Surely kinder than me. He had nothing in the world but he handed it to me as though it was everything.
My name is Armand and I am forty-five years old. I have thought about him every day and I will think about him every day for the rest of my life. I am cold and I am alone and I am burdened by the fact that I did nothing when I could have done something. I did nothing when he would have done everything.
My name is Armand Doyle, and this is not the story of how I loved Lyle Webber. This is the story of how I killed him.
He had hands the colour of coffee beans; all rough and callous from working outdoors, nails nibbled down to the flesh and scratches on his palms. They were smaller than mine but somehow large enough to take the pain away; large enough to grab the baggage off of my shoulders and toss it aside.
He was kind. Surely kinder than me. He had nothing in the world but he handed it to me as though it was everything.
My name is Armand and I am forty-five years old. I have thought about him every day and I will think about him every day for the rest of my life. I am cold and I am alone and I am burdened by the fact that I did nothing when I could have done something. I did nothing when he would have done everything.
My name is Armand Doyle, and this is not the story of how I loved Lyle Webber. This is the story of how I killed him.