The Inevitable Loss of Burnt Sienna
by Linda Courtland
When the little girl made a mistake, her Dad took all her colors away.
"Mom would've let me keep the red," the little girl said, biting into a suddenly-beige strawberry.
"Your Mom's not coming back."
The little girl locked herself in a solid white bathroom and cried. She glanced at the mirror and watched her brown eyes fade to gray.
Her Dad returned each color with caution. Hunter green before bedtime. Cobalt blue with breakfast. He doled out the stolen hues with tight-fisted control; an angry miser of their emotional rainbow.
Two weeks later, a trivial misstep sent the girl back into that sinister noir universe. A month later, after failing to clean the house to her Dad's satisfaction, she abandoned her colors completely.
"Keep it," she said, throwing her yellow at him. It was one less thing that he could take.
"Maybe we'll see things the same way now," her Dad said. And together, they wandered through a black and white world, hiding their wounds in an ever-shifting landscape of shadows and shapes.