Attacks of Color

The quilt’s pattern is no longer distinct as the colors bleed over the bed onto the floor. Its patches blur at the edges and the colors begin swimming. These colors are the only remarkable part of the stark white room. The only red, the only green, the only yellow, the only art in a space crowded by monitors and tubes.

 

The room had been too white. This nothing color needed to be banished and the quilt was the only weapon available. Its color had helped disguise the now silent monitors. It had brought a bit of life to this room.

 

Never before had White been such a detestable color. White took no prisoners creeping across the room infecting his inhabitant with an awful blankness. He perfectly complemented the sterility of this room. He wouldn’t even let the weak rest in peace. The villain spread across their countenance helped by his minions.

 

Lying across his victim were coarse sheets. They were the first of his soldiers to attack, making their victim pray for warmth. The nurses piled them on, but it didn’t help. They provided no comfort; they deprived the occupant of sleep so they must always look at the white walls. They did not shield the victim from the icy touch of the doctor as he poked and prodded. The recycled air was suffocating. There was no relief from the burning smell of disinfectant. It carried with it the sounds of the hospital; telephone’s ringing, voices chattering, shoes smacking the tile, distorted screams, crying.

 

Even the sight of the various machines and tubes did not relieve the monotony of the white walls. They merely reminded the victim that this was not home. The plastic plant in the corner was White’s secret weapon. It swayed to the steady beep of the heart monitor as it pulled the life from this sanitary room.

 

This was White’s favorite room. Windows were usually nuisances to combat in his quest for emptiness. In this room White had no need to fight the view. He rejoiced in the view of the gray roof in the window. Occasionally the blue sky and yellow sun valiantly attempted to confront the gray and white lines, but the rain was a vengeful friend during this battle.

 

White was a brilliant foe. He believed he had won. His victim’s always succumbed to his colorless sword. They had tried flowers, those children of the yellow sun. Flowers wilted. Glossy photos mocked the victim from the side table, a reminder of the things that were missing. The walls taunted and teased. No color could touch them. No art would penetrate them.

 

The quilt was given to his victim as a gift. It was the last line of defense. White did not tremble in fear at the blanket. No, he was amused. Surely this too would fade in time and join his ranks.

 

The colors were pale and worn, but his opponent smiled. White paused in his game watching as his soldier sheets were tossed across the room. They toppled the plastic plant to the tune of his enemy’s laughter. The colors attacked immediately. They slashed through the weakened defenses of the villain. The red warmed their bones. The green gave them dreams of pleasant days: days unmarred by the gray and white, the wet and cold. The pattern streaked across White’s walls and reflected off the window, obscuring the morose view. All power White had wielded must submit to this threadbare work of patches. White was merely the absence of color… he had no influence against such a weapon.

 

His foe did not close blank eyes. Those lucky enough to be defended by the colors did not become shells for white to dance on in victory. They left the room cold and white in appearance, but White had not captured them.

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