Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“…Dreams really do come true ’cause look at you now. Fucking an artist. And here you are with all your fancy tattoos that nobody can see unless you’re butt-naked. But when you’re nude, you look like a beautiful colorin’ book. Black lines just waiting to be colored in.”
That elicited more light-heartedness. A feeling of comfort.
“Yeah, I never really thought about it that way.”
She took the crayon once again from his grip. He wanted to protest and felt the familiar surge of heat resurface—the livid, malicious kind—but he bit his tongue. His fingers twitched as he focused hard on the crayon in her grip.
“I ain’t gonna hurt this crayon, baby. I ain’t doing nothing but holdin’ this broken crayon in my hand. The wrapper is all old and peelin’.”
“I don’t care if it’s nothin’ but waxy bits covered in dust. It’s mine.”
Her brow rose and a look of sheer determination, then willful contempt, spread across her face.
“I want you to use the rational side of your brain, Cas, and think about how you’re feelin’ right now, and why you feel that way.”
“I ain’t got to think about a damn thing. I know how I feel, and why.”
“You see this crayon as some sort of key and security blanket, don’t you? Like it’ll color your years of long suffering in pretty pastel hues, instead of the baby shit brown, gray puke, and moldy green stains that have become the shades of your inner torment.”
“I’m not in the mood for poetry.”
“Who said I was rhymin’?” She swayed a bit, then sat straighter. Her eyes sparkled in the light. Her full lips rounded into a smile—not one of joy, but of provocation. She’s not scared of me… “This crayon was loved on more than some babies that come into this world. I get it.”
“Trust me.” He laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. “You don’t.”
“This crayon symbolizes your mama to you. I’m holding it ’cause I want to hold onto you. You’ve drifted away from me tonight. You’re lookin’ at me, but don’t see me. You’re listening to me, but don’t hear me. You’re speakin’ to me, but the words are flat. Inside, you’re silent… speakin’ no evil. Speakin’ no evil protects you from everything that ain’t the perfect shade of purple. Silence is the color purple. It just lies there, quiet and beautiful. It’s a shocking shade of beauty. It can also mean something is bruised. Old. Rotten. Swollen with inflammation and damn near dead. It can be a beautiful flower or an herb like lavender, native to Northern Africa, used since the beginning of time to soothe the Earth. For me, this crayon is Caspian.” She gave it a gentle kiss. Pain radiated across his chest. “What an honor to touch somethin’ your little hands held as a child. Somethin’ you loved unconditionally. You, Caspian, are the color purple.”
“I’m going to regret asking this, but what do you mean? I’m not Whoopi Goldberg or Oprah Winfrey.”
“You’re not, but you sho’ know how to put on an act. You don’t exist without combining two colors. Blue and red, like you and your brothers. Your best friends. One is blue—Axel. The other is red. Legend. And you’re purple.” She thumbed his nose in a playful way, lightening the mood. “A combination of both of them, plus a dose of your own flavor. You’re the perfect mixture. There’s a charmin’ side to you that shines with intelligence. There’s another side of you that is seductive and all encompassing. Romantic and alluring. You’re brave and in control. Then, there’s another side… a wounded child that lashes out. Builds walls, then crushes them.
“You been sittin’ here for over an hour, barely noticing me, because you are trying to find a specific single purple thread, a shred of evidence, in a building with nothin’ but big ass purple balls of yarn. I can get closer to this crayon than I can to you, and many women would be okay with just a piece of you. A purple piece of wax… I want the whole fucking set of a hundred fifty-two Crayola crayons, motherfucker. The big ass monster box with the built-in sharpener, and I ain’t gonna settle for nothin’ less.”
She squeezed it, warmed it between her hands, then pressed it against his chest. He then placed his hand over hers, looking into her eyes.
“Why do you speak like a poet when I’m angry?”
“Because songs soothe the savage beast. I ain’t no poet. Never been one, but you like music, even if it’s only the sound of my voice cussin’ you out. You’re giving special meanin’ to things.” She waved the crayon about as if it meant nothing. “Things ain’t nothin’. When we’re dead, things won’t save our souls. I can break this crayon in half, into tiny bits, but it’ll color just the same. Just apply a bit of pressure. Pressure is what turns boys into men, rocks into diamonds, and girls into women. I can break your heart and it’ll mend but it won’t ever be exactly the same… ’cause we ain’t crayons.