(A/N This prompt is an experiment to convey a color throughout each paragraph using descriptive imagery and emotion. Word Count: 308. )
While you’re on tour, everything is blue. The sun beats down
from a clear, morning sky. The light bounces on the ripples in the seemingly
endless ocean. The men on the ship wear their Navy uniforms, and a picture of
your daughter – her happy smile and bright eyes – is the only thing you need to
make it through the day.
When the ship passes through storm waters, everything is
grey. The dark, swirling clouds block out the sun. The thick ocean mist blurs
your vision. The roar of the waves muffle the men’s screams into dull shrills. When
the ship jerks suddenly in the opposite direction, your head hits a steel door
frame with dull thud. You fall unconscious.
Mourning is darker than the storm waters; mourning is black.
There’s a pit in your chest you can’t fill. The doctors say that you may never
talk, let alone walk again. Permanent brain damage is the diagnosis. Your wife’s forced smile isn’t enough to hide her
running mascara. Rejection leads into depression; you think you may be going
mad from boredom as your body heals slower than the doctors expected. Your
desire to speak cannot overtake your body’s paralysis. You take extra
painkillers so you can stare at the inside of your eyelids instead of the dark
corners of your hospital room.
Recovery is a sweet pink. Your wife’s regular rosiness begins
to return once she sees you walk to the Hospital cafeteria
for the first time. Eventually, they allow you to return home, and you spend
all that night watching princess movies on the couch with your daughter. Much
to your relief, she doesn’t seem bothered by the new slur and stutter to your
voice. Finally, your welcome home party can happen; your wife makes your
favorite strawberry cake, and all your friends toast to glass of rose.
