Local Color by JC Rosen
I look at the autumn leaves and clear sky through the windows of the van. I feel you here with me. It helps while I’m taken into the courthouse.
[caption id="attachment_8747" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Local Autumnal Colors"]
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My vision is steeped in the raw oranges and flame reds of the leaves. They may be out of sight as I’m led in, but they are not out of mind. The colors follow me, painting the old building, cascading along dingy columns. I sense you smiling with me at their playful romp.
I am guided by grunts and nudges, the clanking of irons on my limbs, until I stand in the courtroom. Artificial silence settles with a sigh upon the room as the crowd recognizes me. They hate me for setting you free. The colors they wear meld one with the other, bronzes and rusts all rising to silently roar around the chamber. They wash away the stale air, the intense attention of the gallery, the blank faces radiating curiosity. I gear my gaze upward, where the season’s splendor rinses age from the whitewash of the domed ceiling.
There is a tug on my sleeve. I’m drawn down to a waiting chair and I sit. I feel you so close. Maria’s voice is a warm burble, the message sinking in as I throw shades of gold into a darkened corner above. I nod, you nod, we all three nod. Our attorney is intent upon me. I listen, roll around her words to shake loose the reality they try to soften. I reassure her, place my hand over hers on my arm. The clink of irons. You whisper to me and I laugh softly. Now I must pat Maria’s hand again. She worries so. Even with this, it’s better now. Now you are real to me, now you aren’t one of them anymore.
The music begins as Maria leaves us. Her voice spills over and through the barriers of judgment masking those gathered. My upward glance glides along the words, sliding down to the jurors. Raw hatred in dark eyes chisels through my palette of colors. I cry out at the splatter. You tug on me and we murmur to rebuild peace. Maria joins us. Her hand is warm against my cool cheek. Her words spill forth with ardor.
A short man who smells of cloves speaks my name. His kindness murmurs down to me. I go with him and the choreography begins. I don’t want to dance, but I must. Our last dance, you tell me. I shake my head. Another awaits. A wave of your hand sends a spray of oranges and bronzes around me. I watch them fade up toward the woman in dark robes at the big desk. I sit beside her, below her, and her gray eyes are stern. She tells the dancers to take their places.
As they pepper me with questions, rude invasions from the squat man, gentler inquiries from Maria, you settle in beside me. You stroke my neck. I savor the relaxation. The gray eyed woman speaks sharply. You stop and I straighten, apologize. The dance is a serious one, a tango without the fun. I promised Maria I would be serious. Serious and honest. It’s all a blur. Am I being serious and honest? Can they understand the truth? I’m not sure I do.
The woman smacks her desk with a mallet. I lift my head. My gaze is furtive amid the choreography gone horribly awry. You stroke my back and peace settles into my belly. Maria hands me a tissue. Am I alright? Do I need Dr. Griffin? Do I need my medicine? Yes, no and no. Definitely no. Dr. Griffin and his meds make you go away. Do they think I can go through this alone? I need you here. I give Maria a firm response and squeeze her hand. She smiles and cups my cheek. Over her shoulder, she calls out. The clove-smelling man helps me back to Maria’s table. Clink clank. He’s kind. He helps me with the sagging chains so I don’t stumble.
We’re in a quiet room now. Maria’s strategy time, getting her dancers organized. I speak only to choose chicken enchiladas, your favorite. You ordered it every time you came in with those horrible people, the ones who taunted me. Now you persuade me to eat, teasing me into it. You tell me I must take care of myself for you. I get a little sizzle of love behind my heart from it. I eat, taking time to enjoy it with you. My part of the dance is nearly done, they say. I know a brief dance awaits.
Too soon, Maria begins leading the afternoon’s complicated dance. It is watched over by the gray-eyed woman in black robes. She sits up at her desk across from me. I see she has dark hair up in a French twist. She wears glasses when she reads, silver ones. I’m not sure she seems nicer from here. I am sure I’m happy for the distance.
Dr. Griffin sits for his part of the dance. You say I’m the person he’s describing. “No wonder I have to take all those meds,” I whisper back. Abrupt silence in the courtroom. Everyone is staring at me. “That wasn’t a whisper,” you murmur so others can’t hear. I put my hand up and mumble I’m sorry. Maria leans close and asks if I need my meds again. I’m mortified. I keep my face hidden by my hands and just shake my head. “No meds, no meds.” You stroke my neck and back. The scary feeling of my heart racing in my throat goes away while the room is quiet. Maria runs her fingers over my hair before the dance resumes.
People are tired, even the jury as they file out. We wait in the quiet room. Maria interrupts our soft conversation with reassuring words. She doesn’t feel their assurance. How could I? You’re the only one who understands. You always did, even when you acted like the others. No need for that now. I freed you from having to live a lie.
Now never apart, yet never fully together, we wait. Soon the gray-eyed woman will give us permission to reunite completely. I rub my wrists together and the scars slide soothingly. What Dr. Griffin refused me, the gray-eyed woman will order done. I wrap myself in what’s left of the autumnal colors and wait.
[caption id="attachment_8747" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Local Autumnal Colors"]
[/caption]My vision is steeped in the raw oranges and flame reds of the leaves. They may be out of sight as I’m led in, but they are not out of mind. The colors follow me, painting the old building, cascading along dingy columns. I sense you smiling with me at their playful romp.
I am guided by grunts and nudges, the clanking of irons on my limbs, until I stand in the courtroom. Artificial silence settles with a sigh upon the room as the crowd recognizes me. They hate me for setting you free. The colors they wear meld one with the other, bronzes and rusts all rising to silently roar around the chamber. They wash away the stale air, the intense attention of the gallery, the blank faces radiating curiosity. I gear my gaze upward, where the season’s splendor rinses age from the whitewash of the domed ceiling.
There is a tug on my sleeve. I’m drawn down to a waiting chair and I sit. I feel you so close. Maria’s voice is a warm burble, the message sinking in as I throw shades of gold into a darkened corner above. I nod, you nod, we all three nod. Our attorney is intent upon me. I listen, roll around her words to shake loose the reality they try to soften. I reassure her, place my hand over hers on my arm. The clink of irons. You whisper to me and I laugh softly. Now I must pat Maria’s hand again. She worries so. Even with this, it’s better now. Now you are real to me, now you aren’t one of them anymore.
The music begins as Maria leaves us. Her voice spills over and through the barriers of judgment masking those gathered. My upward glance glides along the words, sliding down to the jurors. Raw hatred in dark eyes chisels through my palette of colors. I cry out at the splatter. You tug on me and we murmur to rebuild peace. Maria joins us. Her hand is warm against my cool cheek. Her words spill forth with ardor.
A short man who smells of cloves speaks my name. His kindness murmurs down to me. I go with him and the choreography begins. I don’t want to dance, but I must. Our last dance, you tell me. I shake my head. Another awaits. A wave of your hand sends a spray of oranges and bronzes around me. I watch them fade up toward the woman in dark robes at the big desk. I sit beside her, below her, and her gray eyes are stern. She tells the dancers to take their places.
As they pepper me with questions, rude invasions from the squat man, gentler inquiries from Maria, you settle in beside me. You stroke my neck. I savor the relaxation. The gray eyed woman speaks sharply. You stop and I straighten, apologize. The dance is a serious one, a tango without the fun. I promised Maria I would be serious. Serious and honest. It’s all a blur. Am I being serious and honest? Can they understand the truth? I’m not sure I do.
The woman smacks her desk with a mallet. I lift my head. My gaze is furtive amid the choreography gone horribly awry. You stroke my back and peace settles into my belly. Maria hands me a tissue. Am I alright? Do I need Dr. Griffin? Do I need my medicine? Yes, no and no. Definitely no. Dr. Griffin and his meds make you go away. Do they think I can go through this alone? I need you here. I give Maria a firm response and squeeze her hand. She smiles and cups my cheek. Over her shoulder, she calls out. The clove-smelling man helps me back to Maria’s table. Clink clank. He’s kind. He helps me with the sagging chains so I don’t stumble.
We’re in a quiet room now. Maria’s strategy time, getting her dancers organized. I speak only to choose chicken enchiladas, your favorite. You ordered it every time you came in with those horrible people, the ones who taunted me. Now you persuade me to eat, teasing me into it. You tell me I must take care of myself for you. I get a little sizzle of love behind my heart from it. I eat, taking time to enjoy it with you. My part of the dance is nearly done, they say. I know a brief dance awaits.
Too soon, Maria begins leading the afternoon’s complicated dance. It is watched over by the gray-eyed woman in black robes. She sits up at her desk across from me. I see she has dark hair up in a French twist. She wears glasses when she reads, silver ones. I’m not sure she seems nicer from here. I am sure I’m happy for the distance.
Dr. Griffin sits for his part of the dance. You say I’m the person he’s describing. “No wonder I have to take all those meds,” I whisper back. Abrupt silence in the courtroom. Everyone is staring at me. “That wasn’t a whisper,” you murmur so others can’t hear. I put my hand up and mumble I’m sorry. Maria leans close and asks if I need my meds again. I’m mortified. I keep my face hidden by my hands and just shake my head. “No meds, no meds.” You stroke my neck and back. The scary feeling of my heart racing in my throat goes away while the room is quiet. Maria runs her fingers over my hair before the dance resumes.
People are tired, even the jury as they file out. We wait in the quiet room. Maria interrupts our soft conversation with reassuring words. She doesn’t feel their assurance. How could I? You’re the only one who understands. You always did, even when you acted like the others. No need for that now. I freed you from having to live a lie.
Now never apart, yet never fully together, we wait. Soon the gray-eyed woman will give us permission to reunite completely. I rub my wrists together and the scars slide soothingly. What Dr. Griffin refused me, the gray-eyed woman will order done. I wrap myself in what’s left of the autumnal colors and wait.
