Status: short story
Colour Blind
six
Time went on. When I’d walk around town I’d get shoved to the side and tossed about by blokes much larger than me, some of them laughing and spitting at me feet. “Queer,” they’d call me, their faces shrivelled up with disgust. I didn’t know how to tell them that I wasn’t. I didn’t love nobody else — just Lyle. And if I had to love a bloody carcass of a man for the rest of my life, then love him I would.
Some days I’d sit alone at the old house and I’d look up at the stars. I’d try to look for them — Pa and Lyle, but there were so many up there that it was hard to tell. Sometimes I’d have too much whisky and I could feel him sitting beside me, his head on my shoulder like the ghost of a memory. And I could swear he was really there — swear I could smell him and feel him, but when I’d look there would be nothing but distance.
I’d never felt so lonely in my life.
———————————————————
When I was thirty-eight, I had married an old widow. Her name was Lorraine, and her first husband had died in a horse accident. We both knew that there would never be love between us, because we both were holding on to ghosts, but she had moved in with me at the old house. We slept in separate beds, and some days I would tell her about Lyle, and she would tell me about her husband. We were friends in the fact that we had no one else, but when nighttime came she would retreat to her room and I would walk outside and sit under the stars, and imagine that he was there with me.
I’d imagine Pa, too. Wonder if he had known it all along, even on his death bed — had known that I’d kill Lyle from the start. I thought of all of the warnings, thought of all that I’d ruined, and I would weep until I’d fall asleep where his bloody and bruised body had rested. When the sun rose I would open my eyes and I would be in the same place that I had always been, and I would start another day, lonely and sad; emptiness ever present inside of me.
———————————————————
Lyle was and always would be the best part of my life. People had walked away from him his whole life, and if I could right now, I’d be running towards him. Lyle Webber was not a black man. He was not the colour of his skin. He was the only thing that gave my life colour — bright and bold; pale and transparent once he was gone.
I see him in the stars. He sits as a ghost in my palm; as a memory pressed against the lines in my fingers. I watch over him and I hold him dear and I hope that he watches over me too.
Some days I’d sit alone at the old house and I’d look up at the stars. I’d try to look for them — Pa and Lyle, but there were so many up there that it was hard to tell. Sometimes I’d have too much whisky and I could feel him sitting beside me, his head on my shoulder like the ghost of a memory. And I could swear he was really there — swear I could smell him and feel him, but when I’d look there would be nothing but distance.
I’d never felt so lonely in my life.
———————————————————
When I was thirty-eight, I had married an old widow. Her name was Lorraine, and her first husband had died in a horse accident. We both knew that there would never be love between us, because we both were holding on to ghosts, but she had moved in with me at the old house. We slept in separate beds, and some days I would tell her about Lyle, and she would tell me about her husband. We were friends in the fact that we had no one else, but when nighttime came she would retreat to her room and I would walk outside and sit under the stars, and imagine that he was there with me.
I’d imagine Pa, too. Wonder if he had known it all along, even on his death bed — had known that I’d kill Lyle from the start. I thought of all of the warnings, thought of all that I’d ruined, and I would weep until I’d fall asleep where his bloody and bruised body had rested. When the sun rose I would open my eyes and I would be in the same place that I had always been, and I would start another day, lonely and sad; emptiness ever present inside of me.
———————————————————
Lyle was and always would be the best part of my life. People had walked away from him his whole life, and if I could right now, I’d be running towards him. Lyle Webber was not a black man. He was not the colour of his skin. He was the only thing that gave my life colour — bright and bold; pale and transparent once he was gone.
I see him in the stars. He sits as a ghost in my palm; as a memory pressed against the lines in my fingers. I watch over him and I hold him dear and I hope that he watches over me too.
♠ ♠ ♠
And it is over! Thank you so much to everyone who followed this story, and all of you who took the time to comment. I didn't expect to get much of a response when I first started posting this story, so it's been really wonderful that that hasn't been the case.Armand and Lyle's story shouted at me one day and I knew that it was a story that needed to be told. Thank you all so much for sharing it.