blue eyes

It was not that blue. I was sure of it.

His left eye was a sort of color even I found hard to describe. Turquoise? Aqua-blue? No, not that either.

Today was the first day back at the university, and this painting was supposed to be my summer holiday project. If only I could just pick a random blue color to paint his left eye, then this painting would have been finished yesterday. But I was stubborn. It needed to be the right shade of blue.

I put the paintbrush down and tried to imagine what his eye color was again. And I saw him, just like in my dreams—hair the color of spun gold, and eyes… heterochromia. He had heterochromia eyes. One blue and one green. He was unique. He was special. And he was the boy who kept appearing in my dreams.

It was weird. I’d always thought dreams were just random images your brain fired off when you were asleep, but I couldn’t explain how a boy with such a unique physical feature could appear in my dreams again and again, as if he were a memory I had somehow lost.

If only Mama was here, she could tell me about my childhood.

A sharp pain seared through my heart as the memory of that accident from fourteen years ago came crashing back. A moment of sudden recklessness, an unchecked emotion, and it had spiraled into an event that cost my mother’s life.

And it was me.

I was her killer.

I was the culprit behind it all.

I was the one who had made her die.

And the consequences had led me to bury the biggest secret surrounding that accident—one that, if revealed, could alter the course of my life forever.

But whenever I dreamed of that young boy with heterochromia eyes, I found I could forgive myself a little. Because I was young. Because I was foolish. And it was okay—because no person was an angel.

I knew I was far from perfect. I had many flaws. But I strived to be better. I strived to do better—for the sake of Jenny, my little sister, whom I could give my life for, and for Papa, the man who had carried the burden of looking after his two young daughters when his beloved wife died.

I sighed, shoving the morbid thoughts aside, and started mixing the paint again until I found the perfect shade. Sky blue. That was it.

I applied the finishing touches to his left eye, and it was now complete. I stood back, marveling at my painting for the first time.

It was a portrait of a boy, probably around ten or eleven years old, standing against the backdrop of rose bushes. He was looking at someone in the far distance, beyond the border of the canvas. His golden locks, streaked to an almost whitish blond under the light of the afternoon sun, made him look majestic—like an angel descended from the sky. He wore the brightest smile, one that lit up the world. And those heterochromia eyes were filled with so much love and warmth.

Envy ate at me as I thought of the person who received that love. I wished it was me. I felt such a strong connection to him that it hurt to know his smile was for someone else.

I chuckled at my own stupidity. He was nothing but my imagination.

Dreams do not equate to reality, just as he would never be anything more than the boy who appeared in my dreams.

My mobile ringtone snapped me out of my reverie. I swiveled out of my chair and approached the small bookshelf at the corner of my bedroom where my phone lay charging. It had been three days since I last checked my phone. I had been so immersed in my painting that I’d forgotten all about it.

Until it ran out of battery. I had put it on the charger the whole night and had seemingly forgotten about it again until now.

I checked the caller ID. It was Jenny. I accepted the call.

“Hey, Mel,” she greeted me, so loud and boisterous as usual.

I smiled softly. My sister was always so bright and chirpy; sometimes I wondered where she got all that energy from.

“Finished class already?” I asked, glancing at the clock on the wall.

It was already nine. I had been awake since five this morning, working on this painting. Jenny had left early for an important accounting lecture. I still had a few hours before heading to class myself. Maybe I could prepare lunch for Papa in advance. I put the phone on speaker and started packing up.

“Yeah, but we still have another class after this. Professor Barker isn’t here yet,” Jenny’s voice oozed out of the speaker.

“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, not that she could see it.

“So, have you finished it yet?” she asked, changing the subject so fast my mind went blank for a second—until it registered what she was referring to. Oh, right. The painting.

“Oh… Yes, I have. Just now.”

“Wow! Can’t wait to see it. That boy looks cute.”

“He sure is. It took a little longer to finish, though. I couldn’t decide the right colors for his eyes. But it’s all done now. He’s perfect.” I couldn’t help glancing back at my finished painting, and a sense of pride welled in my chest. He turned out exactly like the image in my dreams.

“Imagine what he looks like all grown up. He’ll be one hot-looking guy.”

Jenny’s words caught me off guard.