Coloring the Wall

Flash fiction on a family painting the living room wall

We lived in a strange world. We just didn't know it then. Everywhere colorlessness pervaded, and no one thought about color. It was what it was.

For two hundred years, our people made the new planet our home. No records of the ancients existed when I emerged into this new world.

I remember in vivid detail, or should I say in vivid color that momentous day.

Now in my forties, I lived the good life; three kids and a lovely wife. As was common, we lived with both sets of parents, so our sprawling mansion of ten rooms fit us perfectly.

My walk to work began at eight every morning. A short ten-minute walk served as moderate exercise.

On Friday morning, at five past eight, as I raced towards the office, the sky glowed an unknown tint. As one, our eyes lifted. In a flash, the sky returned to its dull grey. Looking around, I knew I had not imagined the phenomenon.

A moment later, our world transformed. Plants and trees took on unseen tinges. Only the buildings remained white.

Chaos.

No one worked that day, marveling at the transformation. People stopped at every step to examine nature in its multi-hued glory.

Our government was quick to act. In a special TV bulletin on Friday evening, a solemn-looking President announced that our world now has ‘color.’

“We will release the names of all the colors starting tomorrow,” he added in a grave tone.

“There is no need to panic. Whatever happened has not hurt anyone or made anyone sick. Be assured, we are doing everything to enable us to thrive in the new reality.”

In a matter of weeks, ‘colors’ permeated our existence. The drab and lifeless environment sprang to life.

That’s when my father came up with the brilliant idea to paint the walls in the living room. Establishments, which until then, solely manufactured paints in different shades of white, now jumped on the colors.

My wife Omana and I visited the paint shop. Other families had the same idea, and we waited patiently in a long line to buy colored paint.

Inside, confusion.

An array of cans celebrated color like nothing we had seen before. The owner indicated with impatience that we need to buy and leave as the line outside snaked further out.

Omana picked four colors with odd names; Flown, Hiopet, Molin, Breen.

Back home, the family had already prepared the living room. Cleared of furniture and white cardboard all over, the place looked starker than ever.

The entire family looked like they were waiting for a movie to start.

I cleared my throat.

“Alright, we’ll try a little bit of each in a small patch, and then we can decide what we like.”

Flourishing the brush with as much drama as I could muster, I dipped it in Flown and applied a generous patch on the screaming white wall.

My wife’s mother threw up almost instantaneously. I halted in mid-paint.

“It’s nothing. Something I ate,” my mother-in-law apologized.

The next patch – Hiopet, a bright color that lighted up the room. My father collapsed on the floor. We rushed to him, and he waved us away and staggered to his feet.

Frowning at the oddity of these occurrences, I hesitated.

Eager faces egged me to continue.

Molin.

My mother began laughing hysterically. The moment I separated the brush from the wall, she stopped.

Now, we knew something was up.

I didn’t want to try the last color anymore.

Our family is made of sterner stuff.

“Breen, Breen, Breen!” they chanted.

With a sigh, I dipped a clean brush in Breen.

Dreading the outcome, I dabbed lightly on the wall.

Whipping around, expecting the worst, my eyes witnessed the most extraordinary sight.

The entire living room brightened.

A sense of calm prevailed. Our girls, usually fidgety and hyperactive, looked serene and happy.

No one spoke for such was the effect of a single color.

Then, Omana spoke in a hushed tone.

“Breen, it is then.”