Luck Has a Color

by Elijah Merrill

After World War II, Felix, a German trans teleporting factory owner who tried to save Jews—and who sees emotions as colors—deals with his guilt, which is causing his body to slowly rot away. Original historical fantasy short story.

Content warnings may be found here.

I painted a mural on my bedroom ceiling. A bird of paradise flower, growing out of a bloody severed arm. This was after I died and started to rot away, but of course, my heart was still beating. I would have crawled into my grave and let the worms finish the job, but I still had too much to do. My heart had to keep beating. My tongue to keep lying. My eyes to keep glaring.

Well, it was just one eye, these days. The worms ate the other one.

The flesh-eating flower stood for a concept. I need to see concepts before I can understand them. Back in 1936, I painted a mural on a wall in our textile factory, to understand Hitler. It was a gorgeous pear tree until you saw that all the pears were actually little skulls dripping pus.

I told Grace that. Grace, who glowed with her blue colors, sky and indigo and teal and lapis—and her open hands. Grace, my ladder to the world outside Nazi Berlin. The only person from the United States who dared to teleport here during the war, to use her magic to step from New York to our factory basement. Just to open her hands, and her bank account, to help me keep the Jews who worked in my factory alive. The Jews who were shiny to me.

If it is shiny, it is good. If it is dull, it is not good. I don't know how else to explain the way I see the world.

I told Grace everything. In 1934, I told her about the swastika I saw on a child's rubber ball. In 1938, I told her about the squeak-crunch of broken window glass under my shoes. In 1942, I told her how a bombed-out department store tastes like Swiss chocolate and that I was never going to eat Swiss chocolate again.

But not about the flesh-eating flower. This was because I had an heirloom ring, pearls set in a curlicue of gold, and it would match with Grace like a puzzle piece. Matching makes me very happy, and I wanted to cling to the thread of a chance it could happen.

Somehow, my heart was still beating in 1946, on the twenty-fourth of December, and I was in a room of our textile factory, tying poky evergreen boughs to the curtain rods. I twisted some spiky evergreen needles off and sniffed them. Smells relax me. I don't know why more people don't notice them. Anyway, the smell was better than the color. The boughs looked like ordinary boughs, but they were close to a very ugly green—a dull green. Some colors, like Grace's blues, are shiny, but the green of the evergreen boughs was dull.

Footsteps shuffled on the stairs and Mother came in, a shoebox under one arm. She didn't look in my face—she never did. Instead, her eyes went to the boughs. "Felix, they look perfect. Now we're going to make cloth stars. And cloth flowers."

Mother and I resembled each other remarkably, both with the straw-blond hair and white skin worth a check for millions under the Third Reich. Since I was thirteen, I'd insisted on men's clothes and pitched my voice low, and the moment I'd heard of the Berlin doctor who gave mastectomies to people like me, I'd gotten one. These days, friends and strangers alike called me a man, but people had still commented on how alike Mother and I looked, until the worms started eating my face.

Mother opened the shoebox and dumped out some vivid red and bright green shapes. They did have a tiny bit of glow. Like very happy honeybees. "Come on. Help me. We don't have to enjoy it."

"I'll help you."

Making cloth stars did keep my brain from ruminating like a waterwheel. The stakes were low, and I could do it right, and when I finished, Mother's nod of approval put a pin of satisfaction in my heart. After I'd stitched a few stars, I asked, "Is this all you want for Christmas? Along with the boughs."

"No. I asked Grace for a goose. And I invited her and Ruby for Christmas dinner."

"You what?" I almost squawked.

"You're in love with Grace," Mother said sternly. "Do you want to hide that forever?"

Being in love. That sounded so elegant. My feelings for Grace felt lumbering and clumsy. I just knew she glowed like a lapis blue moon and I wanted to touch her and laugh with her and stay with her forever. "I don't know that Grace would like it if I told her…anything like that."

"Oh, you think she doesn't love you too? She spent the war handing you literal gold and silver to smuggle Jews to safety."

"Because getting Jews out was right. It wasn't about me." That was duller. But safer.

"Of course it's right," Mother said. "But it's not exactly customary for a black United States woman to be a patron for a white German man and a group of Jews."

It certainly wasn't. The only reason I even knew Grace and her sister Ruby was my own teleporting. Although a lifelong Berliner, I'd first teleported to the United States when I was twenty or so out of intense curiosity about poems by Langston Hughes, which glowed orange. A decade later, I'd met Grace and Ruby at a New York City speakeasy playing the blues, which are actually purple, because purple is the color of a people's mourning. As I've said, it's Grace who's blue, with a flick of yellow, like blue irises have. I discovered that evening they were also factory owners, making train cars that served as teleports. Put one teleport in Chicago and another in London, and with the help of a teleporter, anyone can step into the teleport in Chicago and step out in London. It's a lucrative business.

But I had enough sense to see how white people treated black people in the United States. And even if my mission during the war had been to protect Jews, I myself was white too. "It's all tangled up," I said. "She gave us so much, and there's a part of me that isn't sure I should have taken it. But I couldn't not. It saved shiny people."

"Everything is complicated," Mother said. "Do you want to give up a chance at love because of that?"

"I'm not sure I can—be with anyone," I said with difficulty. Because I was dead, even if my heart was still beating. Would anyone even want to hold my moldy-green hands, much less kiss my lips and feel the worms? The basement teleport tickled at my awareness. Somebody wanted to come through, and I tensed by habit. "That's the teleport. I'd better go check it."

There was probably no need to be afraid. But my body still jerked to alertness at the tiniest sign of danger. I had sometimes believed the sheer effort of helping my loved ones survive Nazism would light me on fire. I'd tried so hard to treat my abused workers like human beings, but if I had gone too far—if I'd let them leave, if I'd actually paid them—somebody would have found out, arrested me, and sent them all to a gas chamber. It was the brightest day when I was able to let them go, and pay them the wages I'd been setting aside. It made me less flammable.

The teleport was a railroad car I'd had assembled down here. Many people had escaped Germany through the teleport, but we'd had to be careful, or we'd have caught the attention of Nazi teleporters. But when I saw the teleporter now, I relaxed and opened the railroad car. Grace stepped out, all iris-blue with her flick of yellow, a canvas bag in each hand. She grinned at me, shading mischievous. "Your mother's been scheming for a Christmas dinner, and I'll top those schemes. Let's go to the kitchen." I gave a half-bow.

In the kitchen, I helped Grace unpack her bags. "Mother asked you for sweet potatoes?"

"No, but Ruby and I absolutely refuse to have Christmas without sweet potato pie."

My heart bubbled up. I knew Grace's sweet potato pie was her treasure, and although I'd had her peach and blackberry cobblers, I'd never tasted the pie. "Thank you."

"We can't have you or your adopted family missing out on desserts on Hanukkah," Grace said. "It is Hanukkah now, isn't it?"

"Yes." Grace termed the people I'd saved my adopted family, but that would seem a shameless claim from me. So many of their families had died at the hands of people who looked like me. The thought was dull and stabbed my ribs.

Grace handed me a packet of cranberries for stollen—German sweet Christmas bread. "So. How is your mother?"

"I'm not sure. Some days, I think she's getting her glow back." Grace had never given me one askew look for using colors to describe people and ideas. So precious. "And then the next day, it all falls apart again." I was glad our neighborhood of Berlin was now under American occupation. I couldn't have stood Soviet rule much longer. "What did those Red Army soldiers want to punish her for? Not dying to stop Hitler? He has everything on his side; one more martyr won't stop him."

"You're doing it again," Grace said softly. "He's gone, Felix. He had everything on his side. One more martyr wouldn't have stopped him."

"He's not gone." I found a knife to chop the fruit. "He's dead. But his bones are walking. I hear them whistling when I go out to shop. The Americans use them for target practice, but they always get up. It's because the people who followed him got away. Every time I go outside, I wonder—did that woman turn in a socialist, or a homosexual? Did that man kill a Jew? Did that boy get taught that people who aren't like him should die? Those bones won't lie down for a while yet."

Silence sat there while Grace filled a pot with water and I chopped fruit with a burning vigor. Then Grace said, "We've got some of those on my side of the ocean too."

"Say more? If you can?"

Grace put the pot on the stove and turned it on. "You know how I'd go to Mississippi to see my nana in the summer." Grace's parents had been New Yorkers, but they'd visit. "There were dead people on the road—walking skins. Black skins stuffed with cotton. White skins stuffed with twenty-dollar bills. Nana said the black skins would only lie down when they could get a fair price for the cotton in them. And the white skins would only lie down when they took the twenty-dollar bills out and gave them to the slaves they made money off."

"I see." I knew those facts, of slavery, of inequity, but I'd never lived them as Grace had. It only tangled me more. My looks gave me a huge advantage not only over my Jewish workers, but over the woman who glowed in teal and indigo and sky to me. I did my best to be aware of that advantage, but I'd never really understand.

And none of them could really understand a core facet of me—that my body would usually be judged a woman's, when I was a man. They had always treated me as a man, even those few who knew the secret of my body, as Grace did. But they would never know how it felt to hack my way through a childhood with everything, seemingly the very dirt of my continent, telling me my truth was nonsense. Some doctors locked men like me in mental institutions, and a mental institution in Nazi Germany meant a deadly needle or starvation. My luck in escaping that fate was too blazing. It left spots on my eyes. Well, my remaining eye.

"Have you painted murals for the holidays?" Grace said.

"For Christmas and for Hanukkah," I replied, feeling brighter.

"The ones you painted for us are certainly things of glory," Grace said. "My favorite is still the one of Nana and her garden and the hummingbirds."

"That garden gave off sparks. Especially the coral honeysuckle."

Grace dropped the sweet potatoes in the water. "Nana would've liked you. Since you're both tough as leather and soft as lamb's wool. I wish you could have met her."

Any comparison to Grace's grandmother was a pearl of a compliment. "I wish you could have met my grandfather. He taught me everything I know."

"So, how to paint and lie to Nazis?" Grace said with a laugh.

I laughed too. "Not exactly. Opa gave me his—well, you'd call it moral courage. He just called it the narrow gate." Opa had always given me images to go with concepts, which I appreciated. Moral courage was too abstract.

"Why did he call moral courage the narrow gate?"

"It's that Bible verse, from Matthew. Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it. Opa said that verse means it's hard to do what's right, but God rewards you for it. Before Opa died, he took Leopold and me for walks after riots, to see what people did to the Jewish stores and the synagogues. Maybe he knew he wouldn't be around much longer, and he wanted us to do what he would have done."

"Hard love from grandparents, alright," Grace said. "When we went to funerals, Nana was always the one to tell me how the person died. We'd have Mama in her black hat with the black veil and Papa in his black suit and Nana in her black velvet jacket, even in a real scorcher of a bright blue day." Grace knew it anchored me to hear the colors in her memories. "And I'd ask Nana how the person died. I wanted all the details. I grew up curious too, still asking." As she had asked about Mother, when many people were so uncomfortable with how Mother had suffered that they did not talk about her at all. "But you've dealt with that from me. Nothing but trouble." She laughed again.

Actually, I admired Grace's willingness to know, even when the knowing hurt. I always had to force myself to ask the questions, even when the answers were vital as air. Though I'd known the trains were taking the Jews nowhere good, I'd made up every excuse not to see. But when I saw the Jews shipped out to our factory…they were all the bad green. So I started asking.

Nobody had trusted me at first. They'd expected to be worked to death, exactly the way the camps and the other factories had tried to work them to death. Factories are usually yellow, a good color, but not when it's mixed with the bad green. When I heard about the other factories using Jewish labor, the green got mixed in and I couldn't unsee it, even if I wanted to.

"Speaking of trouble you've dealt with," Grace said. "Is your brother coming home?"

Halfway to reaching for the rum to soak the fruit, I froze. No. My ribs stabbed.

"Felix?" A worried twist appeared between Grace's eyebrows. "I know you're estranged. But I also know family means a lot to you. And he might have changed his mind."

"Changed his mind?" I croaked.

"About whether the Third Reich was right. I know Leopold was a soldier, but soldiers sometimes end up hating war too. Maybe he'd like you to give him another chance."

"Leopold?" Mother's voice. "Are you finally talking about him, Felix?"

I turned to see her in the kitchen door. "I'm not—"

"You're making this worse," Mother said bluntly. "Part of it is my fault. I was torn between you."

"Of course you were," I said. "How could you not be?"

"I've always loved you," Mother said. "I may never be able to entirely forgive you. But you're still my son. And that shame won't die until you share it. Show Grace what you painted upstairs."

"I'm always up for a Felix painting." Grace turned off the burner. "How about the Hanukkah mural, and then whatever your mother is talking about?"

I hesitated, but though I had faults, cowardice was not one. I'd been brave often enough that I knew how. You didn't wait for courage to come out of the air like fairies. You just did the brave thing while you were scared, common as dirt. Courage was enough of a habit that almost at once, I was saying, "I'll show you. Hanukkah mural first, though."

We left the kitchen, and I opened the door to a loom room, the looms quiet just now. In there were two of the people we'd saved, Asher Morgenstern with his coppery eyes and rare smiles, and Lisbeth Kohler with her hearth-warm voice and corn-blond hair. They currently had splashes of paint on their clothes—and were kissing. All the people here were shiny, but these two were special. When they were next to each other, their souls crashed together like a wave hitting the shore and joy sprayed everywhere.

"Having fun?" Grace said, voice mischievous.

Mr. Morgenstern and Miss Kohler left off kissing, though their hands stayed entwined. "We were," Miss Kohler said brightly. "I knew our privacy wouldn't last."

Grace laughed. "Your mural is lovely. Though the blue roses have me confused."

"Lisbeth's idea," Mr. Morgenstern said. "We wanted roses, and blue and white are Hanukkah colors. But we didn't want white roses, given the significance."

"There's enough death around for anyone," Miss Kohler said. "So, blue roses. What I can imagine is much better than reality right now, and it doesn't involve income inequity."

I cast her an amused look. "You and your socialism." Miss Kohler had been put in a camp for 'being a communist,' though she always assured us that she was in fact a socialist, and had no time for the Soviets since they threw Trotsky out. As a factory owner's son, I had been raised on a diet of capitalism, but Miss Kohler and I preferred friendly debate to animosity. Anyway, people say socialism is red, but capitalism is also red. And they're not a bright red like people think. They're the color of coral honeysuckle. Easier on the eyes.

"That's a what-do-you-call-it." Grace stepped back for a better look at the mural. "Your Hanukkah candelabra with the special name."

"A hanukkiah," Mr. Morgenstern said. "We've been painting a new candle each night of Hanukkah. We'll paint that one tonight." He pointed at the seventh branch of the painted hanukkiah.

"That was Asher's idea," Miss Kohler said. "I'm creative, but not about God."

"Atheist," Mr. Morgenstern said with one of his rare-but-brilliant smiles.

"Freethinker," Miss Kohler corrected. It was a long-running joke between them. "God might exist. I just don't worship Him."

"We'll leave you be," I said. "We've bothered you long enough."

"You're not a bother," Mr. Morgenstern said. "We like having you around."

Oh, I wanted that to be true. I wanted friends among these people I'd saved, to root myself among them. But it felt like imposing, when they had so many burdens already.

When we were out of the loom room, Grace said, "So where is this other mural?"

I swallowed. "On my bedroom ceiling. I look at it before I go to sleep."

We walked up the stairs, my feet dragging. Grace loved Ruby with such an orange love, could she ever understand what I had done? I knew how she valued family, and sisters and brothers in particular—I'd heard her say several times how she would not, could not, give up on Ruby, no matter what Ruby did. Would she blame me for…

Stop it, I told myself fiercely. Don't be a coward.

I opened the door and stepped inside. Grace followed and peered upwards. "Beautiful flower. Isn't it a bird of—" She halted. "Why is it growing out of a severed arm?"

"It's eating the flesh," I muttered. "That's how it survives. It eats human flesh."

"And you look at this before you go to sleep?" Grace's eyes skipped from the flower to me. "Why torture yourself that way?"

"I—did something," I paused. "It was green. It killed me even though my heart is still beating."

"No," Grace said. "It didn't kill you."

I stared at Grace. "Look at me." I gestured at the mold, the worms gnawing my face, my empty eye socket. "You call this a living face?"

"Dead people don't debate economics with their adopted family. Dead people don't bake desserts with their friends. You're not Hitler's bones, or my country's skins. You're more."

"How do you know?"

Grace hesitated. Then she said, "Because Ruby and Nana and I were dead once, and we came back to life. So I know what it looks like, when somebody could live."

"You came back to life?" I said, incredulous. I had never heard of such a thing.

"I've thought of telling you. It would explain some things. I wasn't ready before, but I think you'd understand now. After…your mother and the Red Army soldiers."

My ribs stabbed. "Whatever this was—"

"No details," Grace interrupted, her voice tight. "Just this. Ruby and I were visiting Nana one summer, and a white man started following Ruby around. It was like with your mother."

The ugly green I saw was sickly and familiar. I had to wrestle my mind away from sheer horror so I could get words out. "That is—" But there were no words. "Unspeakable."

"Yes." Grace looked at her hands. "Nana and I blamed ourselves. All of us died. We started to rot away. Like you."

She looked up, and a tiny sky-blue spark ran over her cheek. "Ruby dropped a bottle of fingernail polish one day, and her flesh healed where it spilled on her. She painted herself all over with polish, and the worms all died, and she came back to life. Later, I made a sweet potato pie, and I got sweet potatoes on my hands, and my flesh healed. When watermelon season came, Nana found out a worm would die every time she spat out a watermelon seed. So it's possible. And I think it's possible for you."

Oh, I was already hoping, even if hope was a bad idea. Then I remembered…"You said this would explain some things. What things?"

"Felix. Did you ever wonder why I chose you to help?"

"You knew me," I said. "You knew I wouldn't take your money and disappear, instead of using it to help the Jews the way I promised."

"You think this is a business transaction?" Grace said, her voice incredulous. The yellow flick on her blue made a kind of quiver. "You don't think I care about you and your happiness?"

"My what?"

"You really…my God. You really don't know."

"Know what?" I said cautiously.

"That I love you," Grace said. "I've been loving you for years and giving you money for years and hoping you'd guess. And I didn't tell you because you're white, like the man who attacked Ruby. I know you're not like him, but I couldn't make myself say I love you. I just kept hoping you'd guess. But I can't just wait and hope now. Is there any way you can love me too?"

Utterly confounded, I stared at her. "Grace…"

"I know there's part of you saying you don't deserve anything good," Grace said. "But that part is just cruel. Tell it to go away. Look at me instead."

Before I could think anything through, we were kissing. All I knew were her lips and her hands on my shoulders and my hands on her waist. Her blue glow was shot through with orange and purple, and the colors glimmered and glittered like a meteor shower I'd seen once. It felt like something sacred we held between us, something for both of us, something for me—

She doesn't know.

Gasping, I pulled away. "Wait."

"What's wrong?" Grace said, her voice rough in a way that flared through me.

"I haven't told you about the green thing," I said, my own voice hoarse. Slowly, I made myself let go.

Grace moved back, though only about a step. "I'm listening."

I made myself look at the flesh-eating flower instead of her. "Leopold was never interested in our factory. So when Hitler invaded Poland, off he went, to make teleporting railroad cars for the Nazis. You know that much."

Just say the next sentence. The next words. "When we started getting Jews here from the camps, I told myself that even if Leopold came home, he wouldn't notice we were trying to protect them. He'd never know about the account books. Why would he? He thought the factory was boring. For years, he didn't come home. And then he did. I never knew why. I just walked into my office one day and found him looking at my account books."

I took a shallow breath. "I'd hidden the account books. I don't know how he found them. But he started yelling at me. You're keeping track of payments for the Jews? What else are you doing, teleporting them out of Germany? He ran out of the room—it felt like someone else was operating my body. God or the devil. I grabbed my revolver out of the desk and ran after him."

Grace knew then. I saw that guess slam into her, and I saw her blue glow start to go. But I had to finish. "He was in the basement and he saw the teleport." They'd been illegal then, for anyone but the Nazis. "He turned on me and said, you are dead when I tell my commander. I argued. I begged. He said, those Jews are supposed to be dead and you know it. Then he tried to leave, and I shot him."

I wrapped my arms around myself. "I felt like God or the devil was operating my body. But that was just a feeling. Maybe an excuse. I was under my own control, and I killed my brother. Mother can't even look at me anymore."

The blue glow had gone grey, and Grace was biting her lip. Finally she said, "I need to think about this."

Dull pain stabbed my ribs. "If you don't want to be my friend now, please just tell me."

"I need to think," Grace said firmly. "I love you. But I have a sister, and I can't imagine shooting her, for any reason. I know it's different; I know that, but…I need to not be here right now."

"Take all the time you need," I said, swallowing the words begging her to stay, and watching as she left.

I stood in my bedroom alone. One life gone, even my brother's life, was better than losing the dozens of people I'd been protecting. But humans don't see numbers the way they see their own siblings. If I couldn't forgive myself, how could I expect Grace, with her beloved sister, to get past this?

I almost wished the flesh-eating flower with its dead colors would reach down and suck the heartbeat out of me. But survival was too much of a habit now. Not living, despite my still-beating heart, but motion. For almost a decade, ceasing motion would have meant death for my people, and Mother in danger. And even now, my instinct was to move. To stitch cloth stars, to bake desserts and debate economics, to lie if I had to and tell the truth when I could. Maybe it was just habit, but habit might be a kind of hope, in the absence of more traditional hope.

So I went downstairs, made a few more cloth stars, and then went to find Mr. Morgenstern and inquire if it was time to paint another candle on the mural hanukkiah.

Sunset came, and everyone gathered in front of the newly-painted mural, to say the Hanukkah blessings. When they were over, Mr. Morgenstern stepped forward with another of his rare-but-brilliant smiles. "Everyone, we have something to say. It won't surprise you, but that's alright. Lisbeth and I are engaged."

Every friend Mr. Morgenstern and Miss Kohler had surged forward at once. For congratulations and hugs and handshakes. To shout mazel tov—good luck in Hebrew. Like the poems of Langston Hughes I'd read, mazel tov was orange, although a different tint.

Then I had a thought. Mr. Morgenstern would probably not have been able to get Miss Kohler a decent ring. Should I offer them the heirloom ring Mother had given me, for my future bride? Shouldn't I use it for a worthy purpose, not leave it in my drawer, with no match?

And yet…

Maybe I deserved to retain some hope that I would get married someday. Grace had told me she loved me. Wasn't there a chance that love could survive what I'd told her? Didn't I owe myself that much, to give it some time before I decided I would be fated to live my life alone?

Mr. Morgenstern and Miss Kohler were wave-crashing and spraying joy all over, and it was lovely to get near them and feel it. "You deserve all the happiness you can get," I said, my voice odd. "Mazel tov."

"Are you alright?" Miss Kohler said. "You look funny."

I burst into tears.

Because a wedding could happen. Because the Jews could say their prayers out loud and Mother could make Christmas stars and I could paint. Because I could say an orange good luck, and they might actually have it. But my tears were also purple tears, the mourning of a people. For Mother, for Leopold, for Ruby, for my adopted family.

For me. I cried for myself, and for the choice I'd never wanted to make.

Miss Kohler gave me a handkerchief. "Thank you." Tears wiped away now, I saw she was…

Wearing a ring? Yes, she was, pearls set in a curlicue of silver. The ring in my dresser upstairs was pearls set in gold, but apart from that, the model was precisely the same. "If you don't mind my asking, where did you get that beautiful ring?"

"Your mother," Mr. Morgenstern said. "She insisted."

What did that mean?

Later that night, I settled in the parlor with Mother. Well, I would never know if I didn't ask. "Mother—that ring you gave Mr. Morgenstern for Miss Kohler…"

Mother brushed her thumb over the corner of the Bible she had in her lap. "Well, you know it's an heirloom from your Opa's family, just like yours. He and I decided those rings would be for you and Leopold, for your brides if you had them. I thought of giving Leopold his when he left, but I figured he wouldn't meet many girls at war." Her lip trembled, but her eyes stayed dry. "So I still had it."

"But you gave it away," I said, unsure if I was daring too far.

Brief silence settled in the air. Then Mother—for the first time in two years—looked directly into my eyes. "For a long time, I could not even think about forgiving you," she said quietly. "But I don't want to be angry anymore. We both deserve better than a life where I can't even look at you. So I decided to do something, as if I forgave you, because even though we can't control our feelings, we can control what we do. That is why I gave that ring to Mr. Morgenstern and Miss Kohler, because I know they are your friends. Your family. I may not be able to forgive you. But I choose you."

"Thank you," I whispered.

The two of us read from the Bible, then sang carols, including my favorite, Silent Night. It had been Opa's favorite carol too, and its color was black. When I had tried to explain black to Mother, she'd said it sounded like safety. Like innocence.

I hadn't appreciated black enough when I had it.

I bid goodnight to Mother and went upstairs. In bed, I lay on my back and stared up at the flesh-eating flower. It felt wrong to waste such a precious evening. Did I really deserve to bleach away the love I had seen tonight, and the comforting black of Silent Night? Yes, I had made myself a monster by my choice, but if I'd done anything else, my people would have been taken by far worse monsters.

Was it only my choice to kill Leopold that tormented me? Or was it the fact of my straw-blond hair and white skin—my looks, that brought me alive through the past decade? The guilt snarling in my chest was, I realized, also guilt for my still-beating heart. For being valued by those who had murdered so many.

Tears burned my eyes again, blurring the flesh-eating flower. I had never believed anything Hitler or his followers had said, but I'd benefited all the same. And yet…

Did I really have to suffer? I knew that guilt for a gunshot, guilt for being valued by murderers, was what made me different than the Nazis. But couldn't I carry guilt, and use it to fuel me, without this agony?

I wiped my face and rolled on my side, fixing my gaze on my bedside table instead.

Sunlight poked at my eyelids, and I started up. Hadn't I just fallen asleep? Was morning here already?

Then I smelled a scent I knew. As I said earlier about the evergreens, scents are important, and I pay attention to them. I sniffed and sniffed again. Was that sweet potatoes?

I nearly flew down the stairs at once. Instead, I yanked clothes on and dashed down, hope and fear pinching my stomach. I skidded to a halt in the kitchen doorway.

It was Grace.

She had a streak of sweet potato on her cheek and one of her curls had escaped its bun, and she was glowing lapis-blue and iris-yellow. I made a choked noise.

Grace turned and gave me a tentative smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," I managed. How did I ask this? "Are you—did you think?"

"I did," Grace said. "I also talked. With Ruby."

What did a talk with Ruby portend, under these circumstances? "And—?"

"Honestly…" Grace fiddled with her loose curl. "I needed her permission. After what she's been through, and then what you told me about your brother, I had to know if she'd still feel safe, if I loved you." She paused. "Felix, I'm sorry I left the way I did. Not sorry for taking time, but sorry for leaving without telling you I didn't blame you. Without telling you that you didn't need to hate yourself."

I looked up. "Can you—does that mean you forgive me for—"

"Forgive you?" Grace said. "For shooting your brother?" I nodded. "There's nothing to forgive. You did the right thing, even if it's not what anyone would have wanted. And your murals and your narrow gate and your love for your family—they define who you are a lot more than one gunshot. I don't regret any of this. Not the money I gave you, not any risks I took teleporting here, not kissing you. And even if you put flesh-eating flowers on your ceiling, I want to figure out some absurd transcontinental something between us. If you can. If you want to."

Purple and orange were glittering everywhere. "Of course. Of course I do."

Grace hesitated. Then she said, "I was hoping to try something. You should know that even if it doesn't work, I still want to be with you. Whether you're dead or not."

"Try what?"

Dusting the flour off her hands, Grace picked a can of my blue paint off the counter. "You've spilled paint on yourself, I'm sure. But has anyone else ever spilled paint on you?"

I frowned. "I don't think so. Not for a long time, anyway. Why does it matter?"

"Hold out your hand."

Bewildered, I obeyed. Grace took the top off the can of blue paint, dipped a brush in, and led a few drops fall on my hand.

Two worms curled up and died, and a tiny patch of my skin healed.

Grace beamed as I stared, aghast, at the repaired skin. "I thought that might work." She ran to the door. "Mrs. Nussbaum!" she called. "Mr. Morgenstern, Miss Kohler! It worked."

Mother and Mr. Morgenstern and Miss Kohler swept in like a hurricane, all armed with cans of paint, yellow like factories and purple like the blues and red like economic systems and coral honeysuckle. They all pried the tops off their cans, grabbed paintbrushes, and began painting me with enormous swathes of color—swathes that made the worms drop off in droves and left healed skin behind them.

My first instinct was terror. "Stop! I don't deserve to live."

They all stopped, trading exasperated looks. "It's not about what you deserve, you ridiculous man," Grace said. "It's about us loving you, and wanting the best for you. We don't care if you deserve it, and you shouldn't either."

"We're choosing you," Mother said quietly. "Let us choose you."

I glanced from one face to another. "Alright," I whispered, and held out my hands. Miss Kohler cheered, and Grace gave me a hug, smearing herself with paint too.

They painted and they painted, and worms dropped off and died, and I stood dripping with color.

End.

© Elijah Merrill 2024