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James doesn't like the colour purple.

When James sees the colour purple, he remembers an early morning in Gunnison, Colorado, in the middle of a lukewarm September. He remembers the rusty wheel of his bike that caused him to stop more than once, the odd chill that swept across his pre-teen raccoon fur, the weight of his satchel stacked with games and pyjamas from last night's sleepover. He remembers missing his parents, his older brother and sister, and wanting to meet them for breakfast before some of them went to work. He remembers a bright, mesmerising purple sky after a wicked evening storm.

He remembers feeling a tickle of elation and excitement as his bike trundled unsteadily down a semi-steep hill. He remembers the familiar turning leading towards his home. He remembers the warmth of his mother's smile, and the converse scowl she often offered his father. He remembers the ruggedness of his brother and the way he protected him, the sweet doting of his sister and her chastising of her father's remarks. He was eager to see them.

He remembers the fire, and the deep, unsettling pit of sheer horror.

He remembers turning the corner to see a wash of orange against a purple sky. He remembers the dance and frolic of flames, the backdrop of trees looming ominously behind them. He remembers seeing his father's car, once neatly parked in the driveway the night before, now settled haphazardly across a neat front yard, streaks of mud showing where the car had driven roughly over the grass. He remembers the the front window, its surface dotted with holes that had oozed red into a fine line down its surface and the spider web of cracks.

He remembers the large white ambulance, its lights flashing and blinking in his direction. He remembers the streak of blue and white cars dotted across the street, the well-dressed authoritative figures idly talking to one-another, some taking notes, some putting out tape. He remembers the quiet murmuring of his neighbours, clad in dressing gowns of loose pyjamas. He remembers the trundling of a long white bed on wheels and a ghostly sheet draped over a large mass.

He remembers dropping his satchel and bike and running towards the house. He remembers the clamouring shout of several others telling him to stop. He remembers large, imposing hands reaching out to him, and remembers ducking them; he was always nimble and lithe, dexterous to a fault. He remembers running past them through the front door before anyone could stop him.

He remembers seeing the streaks of red across the wall, splattered in vivid arcs. He remembers the handprints plastered by the living room door frame, and the harrowing sight of a grey furred hand draped across the living room entrance, its fingers pointing, unmoving, towards the staircase. He remembers his feet carrying him down the hall as his heart grew cold and his body grew numb.

He remembers the warmth of his mother's gentle laugh, her lips now cold, her eyes now hollow. He remembers her delicate yellow blouse, a favourite of hers for day-to-day wear, now a rich shade of red around the chest. He remembers his brother's cocky grin and imposing figure, each now marred with long lines of crimson as a lone, out of place kitchen knife sat on the floor by the couch.

He remembers his father's glare, his dark eyes, his pursed lips. He remembers his starling blue eyes and mop of grey hair. He remembers his face, now illegible. A mangle of flesh and bone greeted James's haunted visage. He remembers being unable to move, unable to speak.

A heavy hand, a heavier blanket. A forceful, yet guiding touch. His home was gone. He watched fade in the rear view mirror.

He remembers his once loving family, but now he remembers more.

He remembers the way his brother would hold him close whenever his father was near and tell him to back away. He remembers how his brother would take him out on trips often whenever his father was having a day off of work. He remembers that his brother shared a room with him, but not always. Sometimes, he had his own room. He remembers the way his brother insisted he have a sleepover at his friend's house, that things would be better when he came home.

He remembers the way his mother would always bare her teeth at his father in the middle of the night, glass in hand. He remembers how she would scream and scold his father, who simply stood and stared, eyes glowering, fists clenched. He remembers how his father would sometimes bark back at her and she would cower, tail between her legs. He remembers how he sometimes threw things, sometimes hit things. They thought he didn't see them, but he did. James was good at hiding.

He remembers his sister sitting up at night in her room whenever he went to the bathroom, her head in her knees, her shoulders shaking. He remembers her excitement at getting her own house, the smile on her face that would quickly fade whenever she saw him. He remembers how she slowly stopped planning to move and started helping to take care of him more, with homework and school.

He remembers the nights his father would join him in bed and tell him what an obedient boy he was. The warmth. The pressure. The pain.

James is now 20. James has been to multiple therapy sessions to help him go through what happened as a child. He lives with his grandparents, who do their best to look after him in their old age, despite him now being an adult.

When James walks down the street, he keeps his head to the floor. He cannot go out on his own, so his grandmother goes with him, her arm hooked around his own. Whenever James sees the colour purple, he feels a tickle in the back of his mind, a brief hint of remembrance. James cannot handle remembering what his life used to be. His chest grows tight, his vision grows foggy. All he can do is breathe, yet he cannot at the same time. His grandmother tries to help, but her hands feel more suffocating than any locked crate, than any tight blanket. In those moments, he wants nothing more than to scream-- and sometimes, he does.

James enjoys the comfort of his own room. In there, the colour purple does not exist, and never will. If he could, he would like to stay there forever. Sometimes he hears his grandparents talking about a place for him, for those like him to be more comfortable. They are getting too old to look after him. Whenever James hears that, he feels a tightness in his chest, an unbearable pain that makes him want to hide and never be found. He doesn't want to be a burden. He doesn't want to feel this way. It's too much.

James looks out the window to see the dark midnight sky. James wonders if he will see that purple sky again.

When he does, James knows he will not be here anymore.