Colorblind

by Siera Maley

I was twelve. I was twelve and Mom was coming downstairs, dressed up for dinner with a friend. And while Dad was telling her how beautiful she looked, a feeling so powerfully foreboding settled within me that I felt paralyzed with fear. I watched her and Dad laugh together as he twirled her around, watching her dress spin, and then I blurted out, “I don’t feel good.” They both turned toward me, and I tipped forward abruptly, and, barely managing to stay on my feet, vomited. They rushed to me, one on either side of me, and Mom held back my hair as Dad helped me stay on my feet. “Honey, let’s get you to your bed,” Mom cooed in my ear. “We’ll get you a trash can to put beside it. Your dad will take good care of you.” I shook my head and gripped at her. “No. I want you to stay.” She looked at me grimly. “I can’t, sweetie. I have dinner plans with Pam.” “Please.” I didn’t know why I needed her around so suddenly, but the feeling was there, deep inside me, and I felt it from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I couldn’t ignore it. “Please stay.” “Your father will stay with you,” she insisted, kissing the top of my head. “Let’s get you upstairs.”