Seeing in Color

Fourteen

Nico

Gosh I hate school.

Class after class, teacher after teacher, bully after bully, hour after hour. I didn't have any friends to sit with at lunch, so I would grab my plate and head outside, where I'd eat behind the school in the shadows. I used study hall to hide in a corner and be by myself, not surrounded by mean kids who thought they were better than me. I hated school so much.

Today was Saturday, almost the third miserable week of school. I was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, surrounded by partially-finished homework. A bottle of pills sat on the counter, illuminated by the evening light flooding through the window. I glanced at the time on my phone.

I'd have to take them soon.

Sighing, I stood up and headed for the cabinet with our cups. Most had already broken years ago, when the family drama was at its peak, and now that left only three.

A perfect number for the family: Bianca, me, and our mother.

Oh wait, that's right.

She's gone.

I hesitated at the sight of the three plastic cups, the only ones on the shelf, and then reached for my usual one. The only distinct differences between the three cups were the faint silver sharpie-drawn crescent moon Bianca drew on hers a few years ago, and the thick layer of dust on our mother's.

We never used that one. Ever.

It was like an unspoken rule in the apartment. Whatever was once our mother's, we left alone. Her special hand-painted plates that were priceless to us and only us, and her favorite armchair in the living room, the only piece of furniture we never let anyone sit in. Well, we never had the need to tell people that, since we hadn't had a visitor since her death.

I still remember that day like it was yesterday.

I was twelve when she died.

Already flunking school and struggling with how I felt toward others my gender, it was just another bullet in my chest when we found out Mom was sick.

Mom was always a happy, energetic person. When she stopped talking as much due to a severe headache, it didn't worry us too much. Then, whenever she did speak, her words slurred and jumbled together like she couldn't think straight.

Next came the dizziness. She would stumble around the apartment, tripping over everything and walking into the wall.

We couldn't afford to take her to the doctor, since she refused to sell her old wedding ring to the man both Bianca and I can't remember and she never talked about, nor the hand-painted dishes that were supposedly her parting gift from our grandparents when she left for America. So she kept getting worse.

It hurt to watch her become sicker by day.

I walked over to the sink and filled up the glass, watching the water slowly rise. I turned off the faucet and reached my other hand out for the pills.

Just then the phone above the counter rang. In surprise, I retracted my outstretched hand and out the glass down. My hand hovered over the home phone, a feeling of dread seeping down my back like cold water.

Picking it up and holding it to my ear, I cleared my throat and spoke a muffled hello.

"Is that you, Nico?" I recognized the thick Italian accent of my sister's manager at the diner. Mr. Baluchi.

"Yes, it's me. Is something wrong?" I realized how tired I sounded.

"It's your sister. She's on the way to the hospital. I'm almost to your apartment complex now, make your way down. We need to hurry."

I choked on my own words. "What-what's wrong with her? Did something happen?"

"I'll explain in the car. The police just took my statement, so I rushed here to get you. I'm a block or two away, you headed downstairs?"

"Th-this is the home phone. I'll have to hang up. But-"

Mr. Baluchi hung up before I could finish, and I slammed the phone back into the box. Racing to the front room, I slung a jacket on and rushed out the door, not bothering to lock it. There was nothing of value in our apartment anyways.

By the time I made it outside, wincing at the sunlight, Mr. Baluchi's car had appeared down the street, making its way to the curb where I stood. He pulled up beside me and rolled down the passenger window.

"No time to waste, hop in kiddo."

Sliding into his beat-up Nissan, I barely had time to buckle before he sped off down the street again. I had just clicked the seat belt into place when I looked up and saw Mr. Baluchi for the first time that day.

His messy brown hair seemed a bit more chaotic today. He wore his iconic blue polo shirt and khaki pants, though there was something red all over his outfit.

"Mr. Baluchi, what is that?" I asked, pointing to his shirt as he turned a sharp corner.

"It's blood, kid. Your sister's. I was the one who pulled her into the kitchen when the cops finally busted in."

"Cops?" I felt myself panicking already, a severe headache at the brink of a migraine. "What cops? At the diner?"

He nodded, running a red light. I could tell how tense he was, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He avoided my gaze.

"There was a shooting at the diner. Couple robbers Came running in, one of them holding a gun and demanding money. Most of the customers fled the scene, bolting out the side door of the diner. Only a few of us were still inside when the bigger guy started shooting the ceiling."

"How'd Bianca get hurt?" My mind started racing again, throbbing through my skull.

"She was behind the counter, running the register. She refused to give them any money. I heard the argument from the kitchen. I called the police immediately, but they arrived too late. Bianca got shot and the robbers fled the scene, taking all the money from the register."

I gripped the armrest of my seat tighter, hoping he'd get to the point.

Just then the hospital came into sight. I unbuckled immediately. I felt Mr. Baluchi's hand on my arm.

"It's not looking good, kid. She got hit in the chest."

My heart dropped; my lungs frozen in place. Just as he pulled up past the curb, I opened the door and leapt out, racing as fast as I could to the ER doors.

A lady at the front desk saw me run in and stood up, trying to talk to me as I shoved my way through the big double doors.

"Sir, you can't just-" Her words were cut off as I ran down the hallway, the doors shutting behind me. My feet kept moving, even though my mind was elsewhere.

I couldn't lose her. I couldn't.

She was all I had left. The only person in my life.

Don't take her too!