Naomi's Short Story

At ten years old, Connor Bailey was fatherless.  “Not fatherless,” people would tell him.  “Your father’s just going away for a little while to defend our country.  He’s still your father, you know.”  But as far as Connor was concerned, if his dad wasn’t coming home tonight, or tomorrow night, or any of the nights after that until who-knows-when, he was as good as fatherless.  He’d smile at well-meaning strangers who patted him on the head because he was an army kid.  He’d wave flags at the parades, and he’d sing patriotic songs at the rallies, and he would despise it all.

His teachers began to send home notes.  “Connor has been very quiet in class lately.  Is everything all right at home?”  “Connor hasn’t been completing his homework.  Please let me know if he’s having any trouble understanding it.”  “Connor’s latest tests have all been handed in blank.  He is at risk of failing the fifth grade.  Please meet with me at your earliest convenience.”  Connor’s mother, however, never got these notes.  She spent her days in front of the television, or with her photo albums, eyes glassy with unshed tears.  Connor would let himself into their apartment after school, make himself milk and crackers, and sprawl out on the floor by the apartment’s dusty window with his sketchbook.  He drew the gutted, burning buildings that he saw on the nightly news, and the ashes that swirled through his town like charred snowflakes.  He drew train stations full of men leaving their families behind, and he drew cities burning to the ground.  And when he tired of drawing reality—it never took long—he drew sun-speckled trees, and sparkling beaches, and skies lit aflame with sunset.  If anything was bright and beautiful, Connor tried to capture it on paper, because he could not stand the gray that carpeted every surface of his world.  At seven years old, Connor Bailey’s world was incredibly bleak… and so he drew himself pictures of a better life.

At twenty years old, Connor Bailey was an artist.  He made his living by sketching portraits or scenery (or anything, quite honestly) for anybody who cared to buy his work.  He was still surrounded by the war.  His father had never come home, and on the day Connor turned eighteen, he woke up to a completely silent apartment.  His mother was gone, leaving behind no explanation but a yellow slip of paper on the kitchen table.  Connor knew that she would not return, and he was left incredibly confused and incredibly alone.  Every night, he covered the windows of their--his apartment with heavy black curtains, praying that he would not be woken by the screaming of bombs and the roar of flames that had already destroyed so many cities.

Every morning, Connor would go out into the city.  he would draw everything, or as close to everything as he possibly could.  And everything--everything--was gray.  The ashes and the smoke, soot and steel that made up his city.  The cement and the water; the sky and all the burned-up hopes and dreams.  Everything that made up the city was gray, and Connor could only wonder when the life (and the colors) would come back.  The war had sucked everything beautiful away.

Quite honestly, nobody understood the war anymore.  It didn’t even have a real name--it was always just “the war.”  Even after twenty years of life in a world ravaged by war, Connor could only guess at the reasons for the war.  He supposed that there had been a good reason many years ago, but now?  Who knew.