Friday, July 15, 2016

Free Fic: Three Colors of the Sky


The room felt cold. Mike reached up to adjust the gym bag strap on his shoulder. The weight of the items inside grew heavier as he walked farther into the room. There was a window to the right, but the sunlight filtering through weakened before dimly glancing off the back of the couch.

The only thing alive in the whole room were a few branches of ferns and leaves, and even those were slated to die. They were stuck into a vase of water and not potted in dirt with living roots.

The entire room felt like those dying branches. Except for a lonely statue on the mantel not a single item of interest was placed anywhere within the mausoleum-like room. The dull gray of the rug matched the somber attitude of the blue-gray walls, and even the logs in the fireplace reflected a tinge of blue from their birch-white exterior.

Mike shivered.

"Are you cold, dear?" Mrs. Havermeyer asked. She held a tray in front of her, with listless looking items in gray and the saddest version of baby blue Mike had ever seen. The color of the teapot made him suspect that even boiling hot tea would turn ice cold when placed inside.

"No, ma'am," Mike said. "Just waiting for Brock."

"Ah," she said. "Do you want to sit while you wait?" She set the tray down on one of the couch cushions, but there was still enough room for two people to sit.

"No, thank you. He should only be another minute." Mike didn't want to move past the threshold into that chilly, storm-colored room.

Brock bounded down the stairs. "Sorry I'm late, Mike. Had to dig out my racket from under the bed. I think there's a colony of goblins down there!" He slowed as he approached Mike at the threshold, and then looked into the room. Brock paused and then walked forward, kissed his mother on the cheek. Something about Brock's lively nature dimmed as he entered the room. His bounding had been exchanged for careful walking, and his buoyant voice notched down to a sedate tone. "We're going to play some tennis. We'll be back later." Brock retreated slowly.

"Very good, dear." She smiled at her son. "Dinner is at six."

"Thank you."

The last glimpse Mike had of the room was Brock's mother sitting primly on the couch, pouring herself a cup of tea. What he remembered best were the scuff marks on the perfectly groomed rug. She'd walked into the room and disturbed it's solitude, and there she remained.

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