A Longing for Home

Writer: Zihan Liu

Edited by Adelaide Wong & Sophie Gain

Amidst a field of orchids, one dandelion sat. One solitary dandelion, laying low behind an army of blossoming flowers.

Suddenly, a swift flutter of wind flickered the seeds off the dandelion's stem. I sighed, dropping my grey pencil onto the grass. My sketch of the horizon is nearly finished, but it's missing something. Habitually, my fingers jerk towards the box of colour pencils beside me. I'm so tempted to fill in the blank spots in my sketch with bursts of colour, but I realise I would probably colour the sky green and the grass blue. What's the point? After all, my world could only consist of white, black and somewhere in between. No matter how many times I’ve tried to etch different rainbow shades into my mind, it’s always failed. As painful as it is to admit, I have long forgotten the perfumed fragrance of colour.

An exasperated groan is let out as I collapse to the ground. The grass beside me is green, but I only know that because that’s what I've been told. Eight years ago, colour was all that flooded my eyes. It was all I ever knew of. Until one day it wasn’t. It was on that day, that sorrowful Christmas day, where everything I ever knew of became dull. The blue hue that filled the sky had turned grey. The icy snowflakes of winter joy had turned into cold droplets of rain. The vibrant shades of love that once dangled above my head became judgemental monotonous glares. On that one blithesome Christmas afternoon, the one where I had lost my sense of colour, everything within my vision became as boring as a zebra with no stripes. The heavy snowball my life had thrown at me on that winter day had never fully thawed.

Before I knew it, the clock struck twelve in the afternoon and hordes of people came rushing out of classroom doors. Groups of students soon permeated the backyard garden, sitting down below the trees and admiring the orchids. The singular dandelion that still remained amongst the orchids with only a couple of seeds left was left unnoticed.

Perhaps it’s because of the way it’s placed amongst the crowd, hidden beyond where most can see. Maybe it’s due to the lack of colour which camouflages it together with the clouds, becoming a part of the air. Or maybe, it’s just not provoking enough. Too ordinary. Too monochrome. To…. plain.

I watch as a group of students walk towards me. I shuffle around, wondering if they’ll approach me. My heart sinks as the crowd of teens sit down in the grass a few metres in front of me, directly blocking my original view. Honestly, why am I even disappointed? I’ve been wishing upon a rock in the universe that I’ve convinced myself is a shooting star for years now, hoping to hear just one more compliment come out of another’s mouth directed towards me. It’s been so long since someone has flattered me with praise, so long that I can’t even fathom how it must be like to be somebody in someone’s eyes. But truthfully, why would anyone look at a colourblind girl with admiration? What is there to see other than someone who is basically a partially blind freak?

A dove swings past the trees and flies against the wind. With every flapping wingbeat, the thump of my heartbeat matches with it, as if a new sense of purity is dangling above me like an angry cloud. Anytime soon, the angry cloud will let down its tears and freedom might just cascade onto my shoulders. The raindrops that were trapped behind the cloud barrier will finally be let free, and then purity will also rain down like a waterfall of peace. The thing is, I’m not like a video game character that will change personalities as they drink a magical potion. I’m at the bottom of the pit. I won’t ever change, because I’m not worth saving.

Every morning I wake up feeling a sense of dread, knowing that each new day I open my eyes to is simply a new day for everyone around me to feel even more disappointed.

At home, I’m constantly getting lectured for all the bad habits I’ve developed. Whether it’s speaking up, staying too quiet, eating while talking, eating family dinner without talking, slacking on homework, staying in my room too much doing work, sleeping too late, or sleeping too early, my parents will always find a way to humiliate me within my own house. The loud, incessant voices that constantly blare in my head seem to go on for centuries; the endless insults that roar again and again are beginning to become progressively more convincing. I’m not sure how much longer I can take it.

It’s like everything I do is wrong. Why can’t I just be right for once?

Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be able to sit down at a desk and get everything done in one go. How victorious must it be to watch the ink run out of your pen instead of having tears run down your cheeks? Studying never feels real if I don’t have to battle a waterfall of tears. I am anything but productive, but productivity is everything my parents want in a daughter.

If one day I were to drop to the ground and lay unconscious in my room, how long would it take my parents to notice? Half an hour? An hour? A day? Possibly even more. I wonder if a happy gleam would be present in their eyes, or if all the colour would drain out of their eyes when they find out. Their first, last and only daughter’s presence would be permanently erased from Earth because the memories anyone has of me would be forgotten within a week of my leaving.

Doctors have only told me that the colour blindness in my vision is perpetual. They have failed to inform me that the sheer darkness that wavers within you is far worse than the colour you lose in your vision.

From in front of me, distinct melodies of laughter harmonise with the tune of the wind, binding itself into a song piece. I would loop this song for hours on repeat in my head every day, hopelessly wishing that one day I might be able to finally play this song with someone in a band.

The melody slowly fades out into the background as my eyes lower into a slit. From within the thin opening of my eyes, I see another dove whoosh past the flower bed. A dove with pearl white wings slash against the seeds that remain on the dandelion like how a sharp kitchen knife can cut objects with just a simple swing. Perhaps, just like the dandelion, all it takes for my seeds to fly off into the sky is a single push. One final push, and I’ll be gone with the wind.

Perchance, one day, home will have a new meaning to me. Hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to think of home as somewhere I can live in with no worries. In a place where I’ll be as free as a dove’s wings, as pure as nature, and as white as snow.