Synesthesia

Before the story, the title was what we had to write about, and had a limit of two pages, so not the best of endings... Sorry. This was for my fiction writing class, and thought I'd share... It's already handed in. Ok, story now.
--------------
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 I had a mental disorder. Yellow smelled so sweet, and was intoxicating in a way to release me from this world and its pain; other colors had smells too, but yellow was my favorite. They 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. When faced with assignments or questions, I had to focus hard and did my best to memorize the lifeless smells of that world. Eventually my parents thought it was just a phase, the kids ended up forgetting what I told them, 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 the place by smells, and used this to my advantage bookmarking homework pages, where I went and been, and so forth. Most people would get lost, but I made it a challenge to remember the smells 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 today, or about the other colors, 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. 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. 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.

There was this one boy in my class who would always act a little awkward at times though, and people made fun of him for it. I couldn’t find out was wrong with him, he looked good, from what I could tell, did well in class, but would end up being laughed at. One day, 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. He didn’t want to tell me, but I kept poking for an answer. I got my way though, when he told me he had got hit really hard one day, and kept walking into poles for a month—still did on occasion. I giggled a little at the thought of that, but I could tell he didn’t like that. He wouldn’t accept my apology for laughing, and got up to leave. I grabbed his hand, but he pulled it from me, and said to leave him be, that I am just like all the rest. It took me a moment to think, that I had come from Washington, and I always wanted to smell my way around the world, and find my own 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. So 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.

Whatever it was, he chose to sit back down, and we talked. I told him everything—from my favorite smelling color, and how I get around… I was worried, but his eyes gave me hope as he listened to my story. I felt happy, when he grabbed my hand, and invited me to an art gallery of his families.