The gift of colours

I wake up at 6:45am. Brush my teeth. Dress up in my usual white and light grey outfit that has a stitched ‘No 72’ on it. Eat. Wash up. Leave the cubicle and join the sea of people heading east of our city. I am comforted by the steadiness of the flow. The predictability. The quietness. You see, even though surrounded by crowds, we do not talk. We can talk, but do not.

At the junction I turn left, leave the block of cubicles housing us all to head down a less well travelled pathway. I walk past the familiar white blocks carved with the abstract figures of the founders who first set up The Foundlands. Our heroes, the peacemakers. Those who rose above the disordered society that was before. A society that was divided in continents, countries, states, cities. Divided by language, race, class, gender. We co-exist in harmony now.

I work in energy maintenance. Every day from 8am to 6pm. I monitor for any glitches that occur in blocks D to F of the core building, the building that houses the governors and elders, heads of security, heads of education, heads of generation planning, food supplies and waste management. Blocks D to F generally house the brains that co-ordinate childbearing initiatives aka generation planning.

I like this job. It gives me value and purpose. I can do my bit for the Foundlands.

I finish at 6pm and exit my work cubicle at 6.01pm to head to my base cubicle. I enter my cubicle at 6:34pm and after putting my bag in its allocated spot in the wardrobe I open the tray for ‘dinner’ that always gets populated with food at 6:45pm and is available for collection for 15 minutes thereafter.

I take the tray and sit on the chair opposite the screen where at 7pm The Foundlands show starts at 7pm. My favourite part of the day. I sit here for 2 hours watching the show. It is interesting today - 2 citizens have been found to have gone to the edge of Foundland 3. They were caught just in time and brought back to the justice halls for public interrogation. Their lives and actions are scrutinised and a panel decides the most just punishment.

The Foundlands show gives us up to date information on our fellow citizens, sometimes the good deeds, sometimes the bad are brought into broad daylight.

At 9pm I have a walk around my block of cubicles and then head to bed at 10:30pm.

The next day at 6:45am I am up again to repeat the cycle of my life, my existence. Complete peace and security. Not a bother in the world. All is provided for.

I walk with the crowd to the junction and turn left. I pass the first white block when a disturbing noise halts my steps. I turn around in surprise to see a citizen running towards me, out of breath, eyes popping out in fear, hair untamed, skin covered in irregular patches of soot. A blue jacket and black trousers. She’s holding a rucksack in her hand as if her life depended on it.

She is followed closely behind by the Core guards.

I freeze in my spot trying to decide how best to act. She’s coming closer and closer, her eyes now fixed on me. She halts a few feet from me, still trying to catch her breath. Foundland code dictates that we must not speak unless spoken to by one of the ministers, anyone in a position of authority that works in the Core. She certainly does not appear to be from around here at all, let alone anyone who works in the Core.

‘Do you know what is outside?’ She asks.

I stand, unflinching, staring into her wild eyes.

‘Take this,’ she says as she hands me a small object and runs on. Only a few seconds later the Core guards catch up and shoot out a blast of light from their hand held batons that immediately incapacitates this odd girl. She falls to the ground, limp but still breathing. She is quickly lifted into a pod that was assumedly called for back up and the scene resets to nothing but a few people who are heading to their work cubicles.

I squeeze the object tight in my hands as looking at it now would give away the fact that I did not immediately volunteer to the Core guards a rogue object that was given to me. Why did I not? I wonder to myself. I was so frozen in panic that I could not get a word out.

I carry on to my work cubicle but cannot focus. I cannot look at the object here either.

I keep thinking about this girl. Who was she? She was wearing colour, how? Where did she come from? She could not have been one of the citizens, she must have been from out there. The places no one ever speaks of.

I leave work at 6:02pm, I was flustered and could not immediately find my bag to go home.

I get back to my base cubicle and sit down on the chair. The alarm signalling the ready evening meal tray is going off but I barely register it.

I carefully take out the object that was placed into my hand earlier that day by the curious girl.

Terrified as I do so, I open my palm and stare at the object. It is made of some kind of metal, 2 pieces of hook joined together on a metal base with a bright red filling, all hanging in a chain. Never have I seen such an object… or colour. I have heard of colours, something that used to pervade the other lands before the Enlightening happened and the Foundlands were born. We even learned the colours briefly but never saw them again. Now we see no colour. Apparently as a consequence of the evil that was so widespread prior and as a reminder of the price of peace. Red, it is rumoured, used to be the worst of the colours, the colour of violence.

I throw the object onto the floor thinking some immediate evil will befall me if I continue to hold it.

Silence, nothing.

I pace the room, casting silent glances at the lonely necklace on the floor.

I mean if I am caught now I will be in trouble, regardless of whether I am holding it or not.

I pick it up and notice that it opens… It’s a locket.

I tentatively open the locket and feel a surge of heat flow through my body. I drop the locket again, this time open. I look at myself and am terrified to see colour spread up my hands and to the rest of my body. I see myself as I have always done, but in colour. And not only that but the floor is now rapidly becoming a light brown colour. The colour is spreading in waves from where the locket fell.

My breathing becomes fast, almost uncontrollable. Now I have really messed up. What is happening?

I rub my hands and arms trying to rub off the colour but to no avail.

I sit down on the bed to think and place my hands under my legs for comfort. Colour rapidly spreads across the bed. I jump up and look at my now navy blue bed coverings.

I pick up a glass of juice and it turns a happy yellow colour.

Although terrified that I have now fully lost my mind I am also mesmerised by the colours. They are so rich, so beautiful.

As I observe all the colours around me I remember that I am already late watching The Foundlands show.

I quickly switch it on and seat myself in my usual chair, still distracted by the colours on the odd objects I have touched.

The voice on the screen interrupts my thoughts as it speaks in an unusually hasty, anxious voice: ‘An unprecedented event occurred today in Foundlands 1. An intruder found their way inside the blocks and was apprehended on the east side thanks to our fine guards. We will have a special tonight - the trial of the prisoner.

It’s the same girl, sitting there in colour. Does no one else see that she is in colour?

I carry on watching at the edge of my chair, hardly breathing as one by one the judges questioned her. She sat in her chair completely still, not saying a word, not making any eye contact with anybody. She was in full colour as well.

‘You realise that if you do not say anything to aid your defence you will be passed the maximum punishment.’

No response.

After further rounds of questioning they passed the sentence - lifelong induced coma.

As they approached her chair to take her away she stood and slowly turned directly to the camera.

‘Spread it.’

Spread it? Who was she talking to? What was she talking about? What if she was addressing me as the possessor of the locket? A heart? I have heard of such a thing in my old school days in history, is that what this is? It certainly fits.

As I drifted off to sleep I keep on thinking about her words… ‘Spread it… spread it…’ How do I spread it without anyone knowing it was me? And the bigger question, why?

I fall asleep but my dreams are unusually vivid, filled with colour, emotion, longing.

As I wake up the following morning and pick up the locket once again, staring at the deep red colour of the heart I had an inexplicable peace, joy and contentment. Something deeper and richer than anything I have experienced in my life. A sort of hope washes over and suddenly the ‘why’ comes to me. Even though I do not understand the power of this locket or the power of seeing clearly, I do know that I want to explore this more. I want the influence of this to fill my existence. I also, however, want to share this with others for what good is it really to be hopeful and joyful alone. I thought about the girl, about her gift to me, about the words she said. I connected to another human in a meaningful, unscripted way. Maybe connection with other citizens would strengthen the power of these mysterious feelings and new found senses.

I walk to work, tentatively, careful not to alter my morning routines, not to attract attention.

Throughout my working day the conviction to test my theory grows. The desire to try to connect and offer others the same experience as I have becomes almost overwhelming.

I walk home along the same east pathway I have come to know so well but this time with a spring in my step, with excitement and apprehension. I see an older man walking opposite, alone, eyes steadily fixed on the pathway. My chest starts thumping. I can do it. I will do it.

I walk in his direction and as he tries to pass I grab his hand and stop him. He looks at me, entirely stunned.

‘I believe you dropped something,’ I say as I push the locket into his hand. I quickly turn away without another word conscious of his gaze following my movements. I try to resist looking back. I have done my bit, I have passed it forward, given someone else the choice I was given. To open or to do the correct thing and hand it in, forget about it, live in the same way as he has always lived. The safe and secure way, the way that makes perfect sense to him, yet closes him to opportunities beyond his imagination. That is the choice, his choice. I do not regret mine.