The Colour of Your Voice

by Daniel Newwyn

  Violet wasn't faking, at least not after a while. Her fake moans would have discharged jet black air flowed into the air. That day, her moans were slowly turning amber.

  He waited for her to come out of the bathroom. There were people who would bang and vanish, but he was not like that. When Violet came out, he asked, “Do you still make a living because you are as obedient as a puppy?”

  Apart from not being able to kiss her, she did everything she was told. Ask her to sit on him, pull her hair, choke her... everything. Perhaps even if he had a shackle and a whip, she would not say a word in protest. Many people loved that feeling of total control, or at least the illusion of it. Turner’s gang boss was probably one such person. The Boss hated when his henchmen started using their heads. If everybody else listened to his orders, didn’t ask questions, didn’t talk back, he would feel like he got his shits together. Like the world is his.

  Maybe, Violet’s mother was like that too.

  Violet did not answer Turner’s question. Her mind was on something else; his words were nothing but buzzing sounds to her.

  She felt unclean.

  There was a reason people need to wash up right after sex. Water was a miraculous fluid, cleansing every single drop of impurity.

  She was jealous of those who could cry. If they could cry, they can push all the impurities out of their bodies.

  Standing in front of the mirror, she looked at her reflection. She was young, beautiful, gentle, and obedient. Then why did she feel so sullied?

  “I still have dignity... My dignity is in my mouth…”

  She never swore at anyone. She never taunted anyone. If she sucked a lip or snapped a cock into her mouth, the only thing she managed to keep holy would be gone.

  Turner returned half a month later. Violet still stood there — this time, she wore a leather purse, dressed in more expensive clothes. “How much for two hours?” he asked. She climbed onto the motorcycle again.

  Violet knew that the Second District was not his ‘territory’. Last time, he was almost chased to his death. This province was full of sluts anyway. So she couldn't understand why he came here again.

  August 1st.2011

  S he laid down on the bed, her face turned away, her shirt unbuttoned. This was not the first time she had sex, and there certainly was no need to act in front of other men. But it couldn’t help her from feeling a certain way next to Turner. She wanted to look pure in front of him.

  Sitting down on the bed, Turner grunted. “Sit up.”

  He turned away from her. She crawled back up, her eyes widened. “Are you not going to have sex?”

  “Nah. I just want to talk. Don't worry, I'll pay. Nobody takes away two hours of labour from you.”

  “But why?”

  But why, indeed. He had asked himself that. It wasn't as if people paid him his fair share of money back when he thought he could earn clean money. He remembered working his first job as a porter. They promised him his share at the end of the month, and then delayed it for a week because they were going through 'financial hardship'. A week became two weeks. Two weeks became another month. When Turner came knocking on their door for the seventh time, their answer was truncated. “We have so many mouths to feed.”

  And Turner didn't have a mouth then? And Turner didn't have to eat then?

  Maybe that was why he took the job of a debt collector with open arms. It wasn't just that he didn't have to worry about money anymore, but he could also assure himself that he was punishing people who thought they could defraud other people of their money and effort without paying a price.

  “I make money. I can use it however I want. Listen. Prostitutes, I can buy them any time. But this world is weird, Miss. Money can buy cunts, but can't buy you friends who are willing to listen. So when I can still buy your time with money, I have to indulge.”

  Violet found it strange. With that kind of money, he could've gone for anyone for a chat. Why must it be a whore?

  She sat on the side of the bed, one span away from Turner. They were silent for at least five minutes, a bizarre silence. Finally, Turner said, curtly, “Why do you do this?”

  “I work like a dog to spend like a beast,” she replied, smiling.

  “So, you gave up on painting, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you were pretty good.”

  “Oh.”

  She could have become an artist if she had wanted to. He intended to say so. But who would take a piece of advice from a thug who had to buy people for sex? No one, unless the guy strangled them and made them listen to him.

  “Why do you spend your money on this?” she asked.

  “You see… What do you need money for?”

  “To live a life that’s worth living. No one wants to live miserably.”

  “There,” he replied, nonchalantly.

  “I don't understand.”

  “I also want to be happy. When I was with the thugs, I had to use the 'street language', ya know. I have to act tough, even though I'm actually just a hired pimp. And if I try talking to ordinary people?” Turner pulled up his sleeves. A long cut along his biceps slammed on Violet's eyes. It looked so new, the scales were still sticking to it. “See this gash? Every month there must be at least one of 'em. You're not gonna dare to open your mouth to talk to someone whose body is covered with scars, right? Thugs must be thugs, we can't have feelings.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “There. I'm happy enough, so I bought someone to hear me tell them how happy I am.”

  Violet carefully examined his cut. She wanted to touch it, but quickly pulled her hand away. Turner grabbed her wrist, and placed her hand on his wound. She should've jerked it back, but she didn't.

  He kept her hand there for a minute. Neither of them said a word. The sound of silence was suffocating.

  When he finally let go, he caught glimpses of the palms of Violet’s hand.

  “Say, those marks on your palms, it looks like someone’s whipped on it. Not recently, those look like they’ve been there for years. They’re fading away,” he then clicked his tongue. “Ah, shit. Maybe I’m meddling too much. Maybe you don’t like to talk about it. I don’t know. It’s better to not give a shit.”

  “I don’t remember how I got them,” she quickly pulled away, her cheeks flushed bright pink.

  “You don’t?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Y-yeah. My memory is not the best.”

  “Just-” he wanted to say ‘tell me who did this to you, and I’ll give them hell’, but stopped himself. “Okay then. Your name is Violet, right? You should remember that much.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I call you V? It rolls off the tongue better.”

  “I don’t mind.” Of course she minded. Violet was her name, and it was the one thing her mother had given her and didn’t ask for anything in return.

  “V it is then,” Turner couldn’t read the slightly annoyed facial expression Violet made, “Anyway, it's weird to see you here, showing your nipples in front of me. I don't think you should be here.”

  She frowned.

  “Why? Do you think I'm not entitled to make money, and I'm not entitled to be happy?”

  “Not that. I saw the bump on your face the other day. Today, I saw another one.” Violet covered her flushed cheeks. Turner lit up his cigarette; his words curved into hissing noises as the smoke released in the air. “Every job is a job. A prostitute is also a job. But every dollar has its price. You understand that, right? There will be days, I pay the price. I will get slashed, get beaten, get chained in prison. Who knows? But you should understand that there may be a day... Ya know, people will point their fingers at you, calling you a whore.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  “But you are not me. You don't understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “The useless ones have no choice.”

  The two-hour period was nearing its end. She buttoned
her shirts, picked up the bag and stood up. Without turning to look at him, suddenly, she asked, “If I say I can see the colour of sounds, would you think I was crazy?”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I see the colour of sounds. The chirping of the birds sounds brown. The gurgling of water is peach orange.”

  “Yeah. I would think you're a wacky nutcase.”

  Violet let out a hollow laugh. “I bet you do. I used to think that I was someone special. Perhaps, only the eccentrics think of themselves that highly.”

  She opened the door. He asked her the last question, “What colour is my voice?”

  “Red. As red as blood.”

  October 12th.2011

  S ome days, they would make love. Other days, they would just talk. And there would be days she just had to sit there and do nothing — just sitting there watching as scars grew on his back. Each time, there was a different reason. Being hit by another gang. Smuggling goods across the border. Getting drunk and getting into brawls with the comrades. One day he came, cuts deep along his forehead, blood dripped along the bridge of his nose.

  Ever since then, Violet brought with her a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and lots, lots, and lots of bandages in her purse.

  “Remember the guy who followed me when I nagged your mother to hand over the interest?”

  Applying hydrogen peroxide on his shoulder, Violet nodded.

  “Dude name’s Sean. I know it's been ten years. We treat each other like brothers. He's a bit eccentric and is a pervert, but otherwise, he's alright. Yesterday, he stole money from the Boss’ tank and then tried to escape.”

  Violet stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue.

  “I went to strike him down. He is now paralysed in the hospital. Doubt he’ll ever wake up again.”

  “Do you not feel anything?”

  “It's business. If the Boss orders it, I comply.”

  Violet suddenly pulled back. Turner, the guy right in front of her, almost killed a ‘brother’ who he bonded for ten years. She was just a whore, no more no less. That was their relationship. If one day he had to take a knife and rip her apart, he would do it.

  Turner read the fear in her eyes. He found it interesting, because he didn't often see that in her. She always seemed like a tough girl, or at least he thought so.

  “Don't be worried. No one but me cares about your existence. If you don't offend anyone, don't owe anyone anything, no one cares about a whore.”

  Violet contemplated her feelings about what he said. Should she be offended or should she consider herself fortunate? She didn't know. “But… Don’t you hate living that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Behind someone else’s shadows. Always chained to somebody else’s will. Always following somebody else’s dream.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Then-“

  Turner didn’t let her finish her sentence. He turned to her with a half-smile on his face, a smile of wry and unfathomable bitterness, “I was fifteen, V. I was fifteen when I raised my middle-finger in Big Boss’ face. I was young and naïve, you know, like all fifteen-year-olds in the world with an ego the size of the Earth, thinking that their will is the Sun and the world dances around their gravitational force. Big Boss is one nasty man, but he can’t be telling me what to do, you know? I was like, fuck him, I know how to bully, I know how to jump a dude, I can go solo and beat the shit outta people. I was gonna leave the gang, head to the City and start living my own life. Then I ended up at the local hospital, with a bandaged head and a traumatic brain injury. Haven’t tried leaving the gang since.”

  Silence loomed upon them; Turner expected that. Nobody ever liked hearing other people’s most personal, most uncomfortable secrets before. Violet was stuttering and stammering; it was like she was trying so hard to say something and failing comically at it.

  He had to change the subject, “Besides, I'm leaving tomorrow.”

  “... What?”

  “I need to lay low for a while. If this gets to the police, they won't leave us alone. They will be tailing me, and trying to get their hands on the others.”

  “How long?”

  “Don't know.”

  Violet knew that was his way of saying you don’t need to know. She and Turner shared the same thoughts. Their relationship was nothing.

  “Turner. Why did you choose to be a hack?”

  Turner frowned in thought. He did not have to think much on life, so when he had to think, he spent a lot of time on it. What will I say to her? Do I even want to open up to her?

  Why do I tell her so much?

  “Choose what? I have no choice. I was born without wrinkles on my brain. I am like, uneducated as fuck. Everything I have is just muscles. Fuck it, I don't even have parents…” he laughed, there was no hilarity in his laughter. “But I guess that was kinda lucky. When I saw your mother, I thought that I'm still better off than some.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Turner continued, “My village was filled with bullies. It was like God or some higher order hand-picked all the bullies and crammed them into a teeny-tiny space, ya know. Either let them ride on you or join them, you understand? And no one likes to be bullied.”

  The room was pitch dark. Only the strong breathing of Turner was audible when Violet put antiseptic on his open wound.

  “I can’t get to college like them good kids out there. I can’t become a doctor, or an engineer. But hey, screw that. I don’t need to be a doc to make good money, see? I didn't choose to be a bully, but at least I was a good one. Last month, the cops cleared up the gang in the other province. They traded white goods. Life sentences, death penalties, ya know?”

  “Are you…” Violet tried to ask, but Turner interrupted.

  “I'm not afraid of death.”

  Violet dared not to interrupt him. His gaze was looking into the unknown, he wasn’t in the physical world anymore.

  “I'm just a debt collector. I'm not a hero. My advice doesn't mean shit. But... Listen, V. I have no choice. You do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can become a painter,” the man smirked. This time, his smirk did not look scornful. “I live like a dog to spend like a beast. But dogs are always... just dogs.”

  Turner said 'painting'. But all that Violet heard was 'idiotic', 'incompetent', 'useless'. Her hands suddenly shivered.

  “I cannot. I cannot paint.”

  Turner looked at her. Her whole body was trembling, her eyes looked as terrified as those of a little mouse. Everyone has their own fear, he always thought, and that was why he capitalized on that to ply his trade. He found her fear.

  But his own fear, he still hasn't found out.

  “If one day you feel like painting, hopefully, you will give me a painting. I will wait at least until then.”

  “... I-I... I cannot…”

  “You're young. There will come a time for you.”

  She took another minute to calm down. She lowered her eyes and said to him in an inaudible voice as if she didn't want him to hear, “You remind me of my dad.”

  Her father always praised her beautiful paintings. She didn't remember too much about him, because he was just as bad as her mother: alcohol, gambling, beating his wife, beating her. But when he was sober, he was a good man.

  “That's beautiful. Why not submit it to the district fair?”

  “That's beautiful. How about you draw some more trees over there so the whole thing harmonizes a bit more?”

  “That's beautiful. If this old man had some money... maybe I could've helped you get it published somewhere?”

  She missed him.

  Did she want to paint a picture of Turner? Probably yes. But she did not have the talent to do that.

  Lately, the colours had faded, though the sound hadn't changed. Bird chirping sounded grey. Water gurgling was grey. Everything was grey.

  “Your father died?” Turner asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Th
ere comes a time for everyone.”

  They said that girls often fall for men who resemble their dad. Perhaps Violet agreed with that.

  “I want to give you something. A gift before you go.”

  “What?”

  She sat on his lap, her hands clutching his ragged, thick cheeks. Her body was thin, pale, legs and arms skinny. His body was stiff, tanned, his shoulders tight.

  She closed her eyes. He opened his eyes.

  They kissed.

  Before he left, he asked her a question. One question that he asked every time, “What colour is my voice today?”

  And every time, she would give the same answer, “Red. As red as blood.”

  September 16th.2013

  T he jailer opened the cell again. Turner looked up at him, his eyes exhausted.

  “Is it today?”

  “No,” said the prison guard, “Turner Nguyen, you have a visitor.”

  “Oh…”

  Only one person would visit him: Violet Pham. If she hated him, what was she back for? He had the option of refusing to welcome guests. He didn’t exercise it. The girl was sitting on the other side of the glass window, hands placed on the phone, just waiting to pick it up. He did not waste much time. As the jailer said ‘you people have an hour,’ he hurriedly picked up the phone. “Why are you here again?”

  “I brought you some fermented pork rolls. I remember you saying that you like it.”

  “They allow you to bring food to the likes of me?”

  “They did a thorough check. Three times. They flipped it over and over, ruined the whole thing! I can bring anything, except for cigarettes. They said that if they gave you cigarettes, you would go through a pack every day.” As she chuckled, Turner sensed the slightest hint of excitement. As if she was actually happy to see me, he thought.