Five Year Old with a Color Scheme

Words like paint brush strokes fly off my mother's and father's tongues. Their  whispers blue and grey, quiet. While their raised tones remind me of the colors you'd give a flame or a dirty rapid wave: bright red and furious yellow or a muddy brown and an un-seeable black. I, Louisa McCoy, sit on the carpet near the fireplace with crayons in my chubby hands and a palette watercolor paints at my right. My little creations strewn all around the living room and on the coffee table. Ones I'd like to keep put in a messy pile that looked neat to a five year old's eyes, and the ones I deemed as ugly were simply thrown into the fire as it crackled. I watched the paper hiss and cringe, wrinkling into an unrecognizable black ball against the heap of its comrades in the corner underneath one of the smoldering logs. I cannot see my parents, but I can hear them plain as day. Mother's voice is pleading whereas Father's is stern and frightened.

"We don't have the money for this month's rent?" Mother asks, her voice deep and mournful: purple and cascading blue. I hear father sigh.

"No, Ann, I wasn't paid this week. But we will have it at the end of the month." His answer his breathy and tired: grey and olive green. My ears don't understand what they're saying, but I have a small understanding of money. It's just green paper that gets you things and paper that I can't paint on. My little fist grabs for my knobby old paint brush. I swirl the colors around, quietly singing to myself some made up words that I had concocted.

"We never have the money, Jonathan!" She cries, her voice becoming shrill. Bright yellow goes at the corner of my paper. " If you wouldn't spend it every week end drinking than that would be a different story..." She adds quietly, almost to where I couldn't hear her. My tight grip on the brush lessens as I listen. Drinking makes Father strange, whoever the man is who comes to my house isn't my father whenever he's been drinking. I take a tan paint and splatter it against the last white part of my paper. Just like the golden honey colored drink that I've seen splattered against the white walls of Mother's bedroom one night. I put polka dots of red down to contrast the mellowed gold paint. I hear something slam on the table and I jump and my knobby old paint brush falls from my little fist, rolling on the painting and stopping by the dark blue that lay dripping onto the small towel that is there to protect the coffee table.

" Do not bring my rare pleasures into this!" I hear a small whimper. " We WILL have the money soon enough. Just... just hang tight." His growl quiets into a small and gentle whisper. I waddle to the doorway and peek in to see him lean in to kiss Mother's forehead. She leans against the wall, her arms crossed and eyes closed. She stays put as he walks upstairs and Mother looks down at me with a smile that instantly calms my fears. I giggle and run to her, my arms raised to embrace her. Her long, porcelain arms reach for me, picking me up. I nuzzle her and hug her tightly.

"He still loves you, mama." I tell her, trying to encourage her and I hear a choked up laugh.

"Yes, dearie. He does." She replies and I wiggle out of her hands.

"Mama, I painted again! Come and see! Come and see!" I cry, taking her finger and dragging her to the living room. Proudly I pick up my masterpiece and Mother claps her hands together in glee and pride.

"Beautiful, Louisa! How did you do this?" She takes my painting and studies it.

"I heard you and daddy talking." I reply, beaming. Her countanence falters slightly.

"Well," she exclaims," this will go straight on the icebox, let's go put it on there."

I nod my head happily and skip beside her. We head into the tiled kitchen and stand before the icebox. I stand there with my head held high and dramatically hand my masterpiece over to my mother. She takes a magnet and hangs it right in the middle of the white metal door. "There." She breathes and runs a hand through my rusty brown curls. I give her a rosy cheeked smile, yawning in the process. I lift my arms to her, signaling that I am ready to be taken to bed. She dutifully lifts me up and I nuzzle my forehead into her neck and she rubs my back soothingly.

"Night night, masta'piece." I whisper to my painting. And I smile, seeing a corner flap at me. Mother brings my to light pink room and carefully steps over my little easel, placing me on my little bed. She takes out a small little purple night gown, retreiving the dayclothes that I had already slipped off and puts on the little night dress. I crawl under the covers and burrow my face into my little bunny rabbit I always sleep with and smile at Mother. She sits at the edge of my bed, smoothing out the wrinkles of the coverlet.

"Daddy didn't scare you, did he, baby?" She asks me and I shake my head sleepily.

"No, Mama. Daddy never scares me. He loves me." I tilt my head." Did he scare you?"

She shakes her head," No! He didn't. "

I regain my tired smile," Good, 'cause he loves you, Mama. And Daddy loves me, he would never scare me." I don't hear my mother reply, because I am fast falling asleep. But I feel her warm lips on my forehead and her hand run through my curls once more, her touch sending me into a peaceful oblivion.

One Month Later...

I tote my little striped yellow and green backpack on one arm, singing as I step off the large yellow school bus. "See you tomorrow, Mista' Samuel." I cry happily, waving to the old man with a white beard and dearly kind eyes.

"Goodbye, Ms. Louisa." His thick rich voice is scented with the smell of boiled crab and crawfish. I open the front gate to the picket fence whose whitewash was peeling off in chipped streaks. It creaks as it slams shut and I make my way towards the front door, whistling all the way. The house is quiet, nothing out of the ordinary, the windows are open half way and the lacy curtains blowing in from the gentle breeze.

"Mama?" I call out, dropping my backpack near the island, The only thing that I noticed out of place was my painting laying on the kitchen tile, its edges torn where the magnet was. "Masta' piece, why are you on the floor?" I ask the piece of paper, not getting an answer. I begin to pout and call Mother's name one more time. I hear a groan from Mother's room and I waddle into there and see Father slumped in a chair near the bed with shattered glass at his feet and his eyes glazed over. There's something that looks like a a vase to my innocent eyes sitting on the tilted nightstand. I pick my way around father and notice that the vase is colored. I clap my hands quietly, maybe Father and Mother painted it special for me. Maybe it is a gift. I place both hands on the nightstand and see the pretty little drops and splatters of deep red paint on the clear glass and giggle. My giggles wake Father.

"Lou," Father grumbles, I hold my nose. His breath smells like a strong sour milk and oatmeal. " Get out of here." I place my hand on the pretty little vase, then my eye catches something on the other side of the bed. I freeze. "Get out." He growls, the undertones of his voice cold and menacing. I take my hand off the vase and look at the pointed, sharp edges and back to my hand whose fingertips are now coated with a sticky black-red substance. My heart pounds in my legs as I turn and catch sight of the same substance on Father's jeans, trailing down the shag carpet, to the wall and staining the beige printed curtains. "Daddy," I whisper, terrified," This isn't paint..."