Overtone

Words by Beck Rowse, Jiamai Tan, Raphail Spartalis

Woodland breathed on the surrounding mountains. Sweat patched a paper straw to my hand. He traded me a stick of chalk and then used the straw to point to the cave. Forefinger shaped indents in the rock gave the entrance an appearance of having been punched in by a huge hand. The man squeezed the straw and out from the tip came a blue origami bird. It entered the cave. Began to glow bright. Beaconing for me to follow.

The atmosphere within cried neon paint on the rock walls. The blue glow faded to purple, then to pink before returning to its original hue. The chalk crumbled into sand as it danced in the colours and laid to rest at my feet. My footsteps crumbled and my breath laboured, the origami bird is flying too far ahead. Dried crackling tears peeled onto the walls as I passed. Framed with desire, beckoning me to touch them, feel them… to be one with them. My beacon flashed red at the upcoming turn of the cave. Red is dead. Red is danger. Danger is up ahead.

Was there ever any other colour? I am surrounded, above and below and before and behind by red. Only red. The walls scream it as the floors hum it. Veins of deep crimson blend with the faint, glowing ruby of the cavern wall. The ceiling is burnt and dark; the red of blood, days old. Even I am red now. Or was I always red? I am red inside. I can feel that as strongly as I can see the red in the air I breathe. My blood has seeped through my veins and organs to soak my bones and cover my skin in rich, regal, roiling red. But it is heavy. Red, I realise, is a heavy colour. I always knew that, I think. Some part of me did, at least. I lay down. I close my eyes. Red. The sound of dripping water wakes me. But when I open my eyes, there is nothing there. Nothing but red. Yet the dripping continues, and it’s only getting louder. So loud I feel my ears might explode from the pressure. I follow it to its source: a crack in the wall. Behind the crack is a light. But it isn’t red. It’s blue. I’d all but forgotten what other colours looked like. It’s so beautiful. This blue. This not-red. I cry. My tears look like blood. I claw at the crack. I want to be inside it. I want it inside of me. I want the blue light more than I want to breathe. I tear my fingers, cut my hands. When I can no longer claw, I beat my bloody fists against the wall. The crack is getting wider. But it isn’t enough. I tear at it with my teeth, cracking and chipping them in the process. I spit blood. I don’t care. The light is pouring out now, in floods of aqua and teal and cyan and deep, ocean blue. I bathe in it. The crack is large enough to put my hand through. I keep going. I make it bigger. When it is large enough to step through, I enter a world of scintillating blue light. I weep, sprawled out on a floor of glowing sapphire. Was there ever any other colour but blue?