Color-World

Growing up, I was always teased because I didn’t really smell what they smelled. I had to close my eyes, and concentrate hard, and then only certain things that I was trying to smell actually had any smell to them. The world seemed so lifeless this way, so I paid little attention to it. The other kids never understood when I talked to them about this, and so they would call me the color smeller, among other things. My parents never understood me either, especially when I would mark anything that was mine in the color yellow, and ask them, “Mommy, do you not smell this is mine and not my sisters? Mine is the smell of yellow.” They would smell it too, the first couple times, and of course smelled nothing, so they thought something was wrong with me. Yellow smelled so sweet, and was intoxicating to my senses to release me from this world and its pain; other colors had smells too, but yellow was my favorite. The doctors couldn’t find out what was wrong with me, so I stopped talking about it, and acted as others did when faced with stuff that they thought smelled.

I would always carry a little yellow somewhere on me, such as a piece of yellow paper in my pocket to look at when I became too stressed. When faced with smelling assignments or questions, I had to focus hard and would memorize the lifeless smells of that world. Eventually my parents thought it was just a phase, the kids forgot all about me and my fascination of colors—particularly yellow—and we all went on like nothing happened, though occasionally I would choose to roll around on yellow paper in private. It was one of my favorite personal activities. As I grew, I would find my way around by smells, and used this to my advantage; bookmarking homework pages, where I went and had been, and so forth. Most people would get lost, but I made it a challenge to smell the colorful path as I pass by so I can remember my way around a lot quicker. Anytime I would use a poster or something to mark a location and they moved it, was what I hated most. I would get lost unless I traveled the path often.

Even though this kept me fairly content, I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t tell people what they smelled like, or my yellow obsession, nor about any of the other colors out there, and I felt alone. In high school, my family moved across state. It took me only a day to remember where my school was, the local library, and other places I thought interesting, which usually consisted of lots of yellow, or a variety of unique colors. My family would get lost though whenever we would go out, or they needed to go to work, and so they would ask me to lead them about. It took them about a month of me guiding them around, and they praised me on how I was able to memorize the area so quickly, like I studied a map. I smiled and agreed, though it pained me, because I wanted to tell them without them thinking I still had some mental problem, and then listen to them stay up at night crying over me, and looking at me differently—that hurts the most.

In high school, there was this one boy in my class who would always act a little awkward at times, and people made fun of him for it. I couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or not, he looked as good as the other boys, smelled sweet to me, did well in class, but still would get laughed at. I tried to ignore it, but it was difficult when I would remember back to when I was younger, and how hurtful it was when the kids would tease me. Wasn’t long before I approached him, pulled him off to the side to talk to him and ask him why everyone was teasing him when he did something a bit different than them. He didn’t want to tell me, but I kept poking for an answer—more so to keep him there so I could keep on smelling him.

He broke soon though to my prodding, “Fine. I was playing some baseball with the class a few years ago, and ended up getting hit very hard on my head.” He seemed nervous telling me, pausing for a moment and wondering if he should continue as I kept looking into his colorful smelling green eyes, but then continued, “Anyways, I ended up walking into poles and trees for a month, it messed with my vision. I don’t do it as often, but I still walk into them on occasion.”

That last portion was a bit funny for me to picture, as I watched my imagination make him walk himself into a tree, falling back on his butt. I giggled a little at the thought, unable to control myself. His expression told me he took it as an insult.

He wouldn’t accept my apology for laughing, and got up to leave. I grabbed his hand, but he pulled it from me, said to leave him be, and that I am just like all the rest. It took me a moment to think, about my childhood, my dream of creating my yellow path in life, and find my own accepted happiness among it; but overall, I was done hiding, done being alone, and I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to not hate me, not think I was like the others, and tell him he’s not alone. I did not want this to end here. I grabbed his hand again and held on tight, despite his struggling, and shouted a little loudly at him, “I smell colors!” He just stood there, staring at me. I whispered this time, “I smell colors…” Hoping he would stay, and not laugh at me for it as I accidently did.

He looked at me for a couple seconds, though they dredged onto what felt like a small eternity, before sitting back down, still letting me embrace his hand. This was my turn to tell him about my yellowish adventure through life, and I did. I told him what he smelled like to me as best I could describe, what other colors smelled like—especially yellow, and how I use it to my advantage, but it was hard to tell him about my parents, and my childhood. I was worried he wouldn’t accept me, but his eyes gave me hope as he listened to my story. I felt happy, like I wasn’t alone anymore, when he squeezed my hand, and invited me to an art gallery of his families; he explained there was a famous artist coming in, with the theme being all about yellow, and I could not resist wanting to go. My heart fluttered at the thought of it, as I held his hand on the way there.