The Colour of Your Voice

by Daniel Newwyn

  He sat in the corner, flipping through the menu looking for an iced black coffee. The owner of the restaurant — a bald middle-aged man — came out, and shouted. “Violet? Violet!”

  Violet startled, jumped up, and rushed inside. That was more than enough for the owner to give her a lecture, “Look at you! Are you a woman or are you a duck? Customer came in and you just sat there? Put on your apron!”

  Turner observed the girl: slim figure, clumsy as a tailless cat, struggling to carry even an empty tray. She approached him; her voice faltered. “What would you like, sir?”

  Violet looked at him, expressionless. On the outside, she didn't look one bit astonished or resentful to meet him here. But on the inside, she was restless, purely from the fact that his eyes were fixed on her with such concentration. Does he want something from me? Did he change his mind and want to force me to pay off my mother's debts? Subconsciously, she took a step backward.

  For Turner, the reason was much simpler. Violet's eyes were beautiful, like the serene surface of a lake on a full moon.

  “An iced black coffee.” His voice was stout.

  Upon hearing his words, she stopped, just like the last time he called her. Her eyes were wide open, making her look like she was a lost doe. “Yes. Would you like anything else?”

  “No.”

  Violet lingered for a few seconds; that confused Turner. “What?” he asked. She shook her head, and hinted a small smile as she turned away.

  Strange. The many times he had seen her, she never smiled. What was the point of smiling there? Maybe it was only because she was being hospitable as a waitress? Or was he mistaken?

  “Do you like painting?” He asked. Violet hesitated, but didn't turn back. He continued. “Well? If you like it, say it. There is nothing embarrassing about it.”

  Violet didn't answer, instead just walked toward the kitchen. A moment later, she returned with a cup of coffee in her hand and a sheet of paper under her arm. She spread it in front of Turner.

  “I know you are not interested…” her voice was meek, “I just thought... maybe you would like it.”

  “I'll be the judge of my interest.”

  Turner closely studied the picture. It was a landscape painting, outlining the street scene in the afternoon. It didn't seem finished, because he noticed some pencil strokes that hadn't been coloured. The surface of the road was glossier than Turner thought it should've been. Random strokes of different shades of cyan intersecting each other on the sky. Some bicycles rolled around the corner. A magenta, octagonal sun shone behind the trees. He would have liked to notice the colour composition, but all he could think about was how bright everything looked.

  “Pretty.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. But don’t believe me. I'm just an uneducated hack, not a painter. Oh, but I do have just this one question. Why didn't you paint the grass?”

  “Because they would be mossy green.”

  Turner didn't understand, but pressed no further. Artists always have a different way of thinking. If he questioned her artistic choices, she would probably look at him as if he was the weird one and not her.

  He didn't stay long. It wasn't like he came to Second District every day, but more so only when there was really something he really needed to do. When he paid the money and walked out, he noticed the waitress standing in the doorway, watching him in silence.

  Turner's voice was not grey. It was red. As red as blood. But that day, his compliments had a slightly more pleasant shade than usual.

  April 7th.2011

  T urner barged into the room where Violet was staying — that was the third time they'd met. He didn’t know anybody in this District, since it wasn’t his gang’s territory. But he sure as hell knew Violet. When he caught the sight of her through the window, he just knew that it was the only chance he had.

  Violet's room was cramped and gloomy; there was almost no place to move between her bed and the table, with her wardrobe, electric fans and refrigerator stuffed inside. She tried her best to arrange them in a neat manner, but there was only so much one can do in a room that could only be described as fitting for ants to live in. One would only understand the struggle once they have no money left to feed themselves.

  Of course, that was not what he was interested in.

  Violet startled as she dropped her scissors. He stepped on a stuffed teddy bear as he shuffled in, almost kicked it under the bed. Her gaze was following the teddy bear before he squeezed her cheeks and forced her to look at him.

  “Not a word,” He glared at Violet and ducked under the bed. Outside, his pursuers were growling like starving wolves. “Where are you, you son of a bitch! You, check if he's over there!” Their growls were peanut brown.

  Violet remained silent the whole time, the thing she was best at. The pursuers’ footsteps grew thinner, but Turner couldn't risk it. The fire of anxiety started burning inside him. Violet had every reason to scream. Her mother hated his guts, and she probably did too.

  But she didn't.

  Turner wasn't planning on thanking her or anything like that. Not robbing her of all her belongings had been a good enough compromise. He wasn't one to converse; he would usually just give the person a nod and get the hell out of there, and that would have been it. However, Violet had left an impression on him. She was trying so hard to stay pale and prosy that she was physically hiding behind her electric fan.

  He crawled out of the bed. Seeing the scissors and a handful of Violet's hair inside her palm, he asked, “Why did you cut your hair?”

  “There was a troupe going through here. They buy hair to make wigs.”

  “How much do you get from selling hair?”

  “Enough.”

  Whatever she did was not his business. He had barged into another person's house, it would have been awkward at least not trying to converse.

  “I like your long hair better. Of course, not that you should care about it.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Why don't I see you at that café anymore?”

  Violet was surprised. She had never thought that Turner was aware of her enough to realize that.

  “I quit my job.”

  “Why? Are you going to kick-start a career as a painter?” Turner laughed, giving her a sarcastic gaze. Violet was used to that look.

  “No. I just didn't like doing it.” She turned her back to him.

  She just couldn't do it anymore. Each time Violet thought about what the old boss at the cafe had done to her, she could not bear it. Every word he said dwelled on her mind like a voice recorder on repeat.

  “You have no place to go? Rest assured, just stay here and work for big uncle. I'll give you a roof on your head and pay you. There's nothing to worry about.”

  “No, it's okay... How much are three broken cups worth anyway? You don't have to apologize, to me you're like family!”

  “Come here and stay with me... No, there's no one at home to be afraid of! My wife never goes home…”

  “‘Put your hand away?’ Fucking brat! I gave you a place to stay, I gave you food, and you dare say ‘no’ to me? Without me, you would've died in a fucking ditch, insolent brat! Look at you, you can do absolutely nothing at all! Everything you touch fucking breaks! Always daydreaming, what kind of world are you living in?”

  “You ain't no painter, brat! Don't give me that look! What? Why don't you say anything? Are you mute or are you deaf?”

  “You think just because you have some beauty, you're so much better than everyone else? The likes of you will only ever earn your worth if you spread your damn legs!”

  Violet did not want to think about what had happened. It terrified her. It was haunting to think of how people could change in the blink of an eye. It was haunting to remember the mossy green blobs floating on his head as he laid his hands on her skin.

  But above all, there was something he said that she would remember forever. As he had pushed her tightly against the wall, when h
is fat and clumsy fingers tried to pull her pants down, he stuck his tongue out.

  “You need money? I have it all. Spread your legs, I'll pay however much you want!”

  The man was distracted for a second — a second that was worth her virginity. She kicked him and ran. They said on television that good people live by virtue and dignity. She held on to her virtue when the class bullies picked up her paintings and passed them on to the entire class. One time, she even jerked it back.

  “It's mine,” she said to them, her voice stone cold and a deep shade of blue.

  Once, her mother was drunk and tried to beat her with a broom. “Useless brat, why do you just sit there and paint?” She shouted. Violet pushed her out, clung onto her paintings as she ran away.

  If I had ambition, I would have respect, Violet thought. She wanted to be an artist, what was wrong with that? That was her ideal. That was her dignity. She was born to be an artist, not a whore. She was better than that.

  But at that moment, Violet didn't know anymore.

  Inadvertently, she asked Turner. “Do you make a lot of money?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “You always seem to be busy doing something. Beating people... must earn you a lot right?”

  When looking at Turner, Violet saw a man working day and night. His jobs weren't clean, but they were still jobs.

  How much money do you need to earn talent? How much money do you need to earn respect?

  Turner was silent for a while. Why did she ask him that? Did she also want to go down the thug life route? Or was she despising him?

  He smirked. “I work like a dog to spend like a beast.”

  “What do you do?”

  “You see. Protecting for a fee, beating people... those dirty, dirty things. Surely you think I'm despicable? You must, seeing how I gave your mother a handful.”

  She stayed silent.

  “Whatever you'd like to think. If it makes money, no job is dirty. Those who refuse to make money are filthy.” His words stabbed right through Violet's heart. Eighteen years old, had she earned any money yet? Surely not. Her mother could never repay her debt, part of it must have been her fault. “Where are your new paintings? I want to check them out, y’know. I know a guy that paid millions for a painting of a straight line. That’s not good art. Yours is good art.”

  “I stopped painting.”

  “Why?” Turner replied; his surprise couldn't be contained.

  “It's just a time-consuming hobby. I will never paint again.”

  “But they were beautiful…” he was about to say it then, but stopped. It wasn't his business, Turner thought. He wasn't anybody close to this girl, had only met her randomly on occasions. Once confirmed that the outside was no longer dangerous, Turner got away.

  “Do not tell anyone I was here. It will bring you trouble.”

  Violet stood outside the door watching him as he left. She muttered to herself, “Not like I have anybody to tell.”

  July 16th.2013

  “H ow did you find me?”

  There was no greeting; that was the first question Turner threw Violet when he picked up the prison phone. Violet laid her hand on the table, her dark eyes showing emotions so vague he could not comprehend.

  “I asked around.”

  “Asked who? I told you not to associate with my friends. You do not belong to that world.”

  “Then tell me, how can I find you again?” Violet realized that she raised her voice a bit, but immediately calmed down. “I didn’t even know you were put in jail until I read the news,” she chuckled, “...why do I care, not my business. You always say that, right?”

  “I don't need anyone to know.”

  He didn't want her to know. He thought it would be better for her to hate him, to despise him for leaving without saying a word. But it was futile, he realized now. He was a death row inmate, his crime must have infested the media already.

  The two grew silent for a while. Violet hid her eyes behind the unnecessarily long bangs.

  “... How many days do you have left?”

  “I don't know. It's like when you slaughter pigs. Prisoners don't know the trial date until it actually comes.”

  Violet didn't say anything. She put her chin on her hand. As her eyes were fixated on the wall, he wondered what she was thinking.

  “How important is that anyway?” Turner laughed. “I did a lot of nasty things. Death is a proper sentence for me. I can't wait until the day I finally die!”

  Violet laughed along. “Not waiting for my drawing?”

  “Don't kid yourself. I know you will never paint again. There are so many simpler ways to make money. If you have a heart, just bring me an old sketch of yours. The street painting with those bikes will do, that looked neat.”

  “Can't. I threw them all away.”

  “I know that. Why do you keep your hair so long?”

  “You said you liked it long. But you never told me how long.” She had a slightest pout on her face, but it disappeared as quickly as morning dew under the blazing sun.

  “You're crazy,” he frowned. “Who doesn't know this is too long? You should consider trimming it out a bit, otherwise how can you work?”

  “Okay.”

  Violet wanted to look into Turner's eyes, but could not. The eyes that were once as ferocious as a lion, though there were still traces of unruliness, were stagnant. Their conversation was interrupted again by silence.

  The old jailer observing Turner was deep in thought. That guy never spoke much in jail. Turner attempting to talk to anyone, despite the constant interruption, was a miracle.

  Violet got up when there was still ten minutes left. Before she disappeared from Turner sight, he remembered one thing. “Ah, yes. Today, what colour is my voice?”

  She stopped. He knew she would react like that. “Red. As red as blood. As disgusting as you are.”

  He was happy that Violet hated him. It added a reason for him to die as soon as possible. Others had the future, ambition, their lives were important. His life wasn’t.

  “Thank you.”

  Violet stepped away from Turner, leaning against the wall, sighing. From her pocket, she pulled out a pencil. She always carried one around, just in case. Sometimes, she told herself that Turner was going to die, so she should at least give him something. But every time she picked up the pen, her hands started shaking. Right then, they were trembling.

  No, she couldn’t draw. She was incompetent. She would never become an artist.

  July 24th.2011

  T he fourth time she met Turner, Violet was leaning on a pillar. With her face plastered with makeup, her skirt short, she looked much older than her age of nineteen.

  At first, Turner did not recognize her, partly because of the makeup, partly because there was another man standing in front of her, squeezing her mouth as he roared.

  “Who the fuck are you to tell me I can't kiss you? I paid my worth, I demand proper service!” His voice echoed through the air, soared like thunder.

  Violet stood still, neither said anything nor arguing. People around him looked back, but nobody did anything. Dealing with strangers' problems is like taking on unnecessary work. Turner thought no differently. Nothing in the world was his problem.

  As Turner drove his motorbike past Violet, he spotted his acquaintances and slowed down. Is that not the doodling daughter of Mrs. Pham? He thought. He was surprised. He didn't think he would meet her here.

  He got down from his bike, slammed the man's hand and twisted it behind his back. The man started to panic, his voice trembling. He didn't even know why he was doing it, it just happened without him thinking.

  “W-who are you?”

  “I had an appointment with this woman. If you don't want her, go. Get lost!”

  “B-but I'm the one…”

  “I told you. FUCK OFF!” Turner roared at him. The other guy did not dare to utter more words, as soon as Turner released his hand, he scooted straight. Some p
eople are funny, Turner thought. Couldn't pick a fight against any man, but would bulge their eyes against women.

  After the guy was gone, Turner turned to look at Violet. She turned away. Turner saw her cheek swelling. What did she do to get the other guy so upset?

  “Do you work here now?”

  “I haven't seen you here yet,” she murmured, almost inaudible as she turned away.

  “Really? I'm a regular. Surely you haven't been here long enough,” he glanced at her, then turned and patted his bike. “How much for two hours?”

  Turner removed the buttons of Violet's shirt one by one, stripped her shirt away, revealing her velvety white shoulder. Her skin was smoother than his drudged, worn skin, tanned from the exposure to the elements. He took off her pants. Violet frowned, her face hidden and her legs closed bashfully.

  He dropped her pants, snatched her hands and asked, “What happened? This must not be the first time someone has taken off your top, right?”

  “I don't know... You must be very familiar with this?”

  “What?”

  “Banging a hooker.”

  “I'm single. I have no lover. I have no girlfriend. What's so strange?”

  “I just didn’t think you would… Never mind.”

  Turner noticed marks on her lap and ass. He knew he should not have asked, but his eyes could not move away from them. The bruise lines on milky white skin looked disappointing. It was not his job, he told himself.

  Violet knew where his eyes were glancing. She said, “They paid to hit me.”

  They quickly got to work. No need for foreplay or anything. Time was limited, and fucking a slut didn't require affection. He parked himself in front, his face separated with hers by a span. Violet's face was serious.

  “Don't kiss me. I don't do oral.”

  “Why?”

  “A slut has her own dignity.”

  Turner laughed. How in the world could this girl even lured in customers, he thought.

  They got to the act. His sweat ran, and she moaned. Some people felt nothing when fucking. As if they were dead inside. Turner was one such case, or at least he thought he was. He had never understood why people got so excited about sex; it had never appealed to him all that much. If he wanted to sweat himself like a dog, he would beat someone up, that would have been more fun. But that day, and every day after that with Violet, he felt good. He liked to hear Violet moan, but he did not think much about it. Sluts were the best at faking moans.