Things That Are Blue - Literary fiction

Updated: Jun 11




Our son is painting the grass blue, I don’t understand at first, but after having asked, he clarifies by cooing it’s because he wants to be different (moreover he doesn’t like the colour green), I still wonder how it serves as a rationale justification, he continues, “I don’t like the grass or the painting, Ma, but I think Miss Jennie and Sophia would appreciate more if I be better than the boys in my class”, I sigh, "oh dear," and throw him a smile rubbing his back several times, shifting away to resume the preparation of their avocado toast for breakfast.


I use my blue knife to scoop its flesh, the odour reminds me of how you smelled, I brush it off with my forearm, but it’s too late, waves of sadness sweep me in, between their widths. There are many things blue, like the flame that ignites too bright when I slip my fingers on the regulator of the gas stove accidentally, for instance right now; and I nearly puke on the whiff of hot milk, but it’s Saturday, it’s what you drank that morning, so I let it boil anyway. I turn down the blazing fire then, the same source of fire that had caused you to burn in the kitchen the other night, the one that had made you shriek till your throat had turned blue but nobody had come to your rescue. I was drinking tequila at a bar in my black dress that evening, thank god my dress wasn’t blue.


As I’m adding water to the white cream, I realize it is also blue, water that could have entirely changed the narrative, only if the apartment tanks were not empty, and pipes sliced, and the guards had informed us of it, he could have saved your life, but he couldn’t have known, could he? The sapphire sitting on my fourth finger of the hand that has committed sinful deeds- it reflects on my pale skin, rays of light that throw back warmth to make up for my dessicated soul every now and then, and in the night, it mirrors the soft light of the moon instead, how very prickling, I only turn on the light because children complain at times, all the mechanized brightness, it taunts my eye, but I don’t take the ring off ever, how could I?


My neighbor rings the doorbell and I’m awakened again, far from the blue shores that quite ironically bring me silence some days; I know it’s Tia because the bell chimes twice, and her foot tapping vibrates in the wooden flooring underneath her slip ons. I know you’re battling the doubts to ask, how did I manage to lend a deaf ear to your screams in that case?


Tia hands me a bowl of blueberries and goes on to chatter something about it being the first of the season from her native hometown’s backyard. I take it from her, wearing my widest smile, (it’s my sweater for the face), I often use it as a dressing for the obnoxiousity that hides beneath the coldness nowadays, just as I do to my body where I cover every square inch of my skin. Our fingers slightly brush in the course of exchange and I feel her cold tips sending goosebumps on my skin.


My eyes catch sight of a single iris tucked behind Tia’s left ear, I wonder if god purposely coincides all things this color to drown me in the very blue sea that had first made me feel alive, until I choke in regret, and shame, nevertheless at least I think I’ll meet you that way, although I don’t think you’d want to see me, would you?


Henley runs to hug Tia’s knees before I can close the door, there’s dabs of blue paint all over him but he’s grinning, she lifts his chin and pecks a kiss on his forehead, and for a moment, I stare into her eyeballs and see her drowning in the same sea as me, but they light up with enthusiasm quickly after, so I shrug the thoughts of pulling people down with me. We bid goodbye a few seconds later and I return to the kitchen counter then.


The bread has changed colours when I take it off the toaster, and I know you’re whispering “just like you did” under your breath. It’s brown and red, having evolved from the white now. I assemble the layers of the toast and begin to divide it into two halves with the same blue knife that divided your perception of me that night, when I had stabbed it around your navel, one…two…three…four times. My eye shields were filled with wrinkles, my cheeks deflated, your gasps for breath ringing in my eardrums. I think you squeezed your grip around my wrist somewhere in between the third and fourth time, I went on anyway, and then it loosened.


The knife hits the plate sharply quickly after, clinking, and my conscience is startled. I pack the sandwiches and wash the knife, it doesn’t wash away my deeds, and place it back to hang on the black magnet stand. Sometimes I can feel that it yells at me whenever I catch its glimpse,


“You’re a monster!”, it mouths, but all I do in those moments is shoot back at it with a half smile. I did it for them, I’m a mother, how could I be a monster?






Hi thanks for reading, that is if you did, and not skimmed. I'm feeling this piece is a "Sign of the Times" by Harry Styles. I kind of tried to twist the ending, not sure why I end up writing sinful things and justify the characters by making them mothers, but here we are. Not the kind of stuff I intended on putting up on this page either, but desperation does wonders. Anyways, please tell me if you liked it, drop a comment, I need it, and maybe I'll upload a few more of these.



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