Read Online Fury: Book One of the Cure (Omnibus Edition) by Charlotte McConaghy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlotte McConaghy
Tags: ScreamQueen
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for me is a luxury without compare.
Sitting on a bench stool I say, “You have enough condoms to supply a nation of sex addicts.”
He stops chopping and looks into my eyes. Slowly he smiles. “Well at least you can’t say I’m irresponsible.”
I snort. “I don’t feel any less grossed out by you, that’s for sure.”
“Music,” he says, but not to me. “Blue and white.”
Music starts to play from speakers, something I’ve never heard that’s fun and lively. “Blue and White?” I ask, assuming this must be the name of the band.
“I’m synesthetic,” he explains. “Means I remember things in color and shape and texture. Blue and white music for me is upbeat, something with a lot of bass, stuff that makes you want to dance. I programmed my sound system to understand color cues.”
I feel thrilled by this insight. My eidetic memory is rare, but so is Luke’s synesthesia. The percentage of people who have true synesthesia is roughly 0.05.
“You know apparently everyone was once synesthetic?” I tell him. “Back when the various parts of our brains were all connected. Now our brains are essentially separate, so you’re really rare. It means your brain will have to work harder to make connections, but I imagine it must be beautiful in that head of yours.”
Luke smiles. He watches me, lost in thought.
“What color am I?” I ask. If he says red, I might die.
“Sort of … bluey greeny, with darker edges. Smooth and clear.”
I think about that and find that I like it. “What other things have color?”
“Everything. It’s how I remember names, places, streets … everything. Your color might change if my thoughts of you change, but I highly doubt they will.”
I’m not sure what this means. I decide not to ask, unsure if it would be worse if his thoughts about me were positive or negative. I peer around the kitchen and spot a spectacular collection of wine, rows and rows and rows. I jump off the stool and inspect it, running my fingers along the bottles. At the end of the Wall of Wine is the pantry. This is as big as his oversized wardrobe. I wander inside and am met by a wave of smell. Spices and herbs line an entire shelf. Bottles and jars and containers full of bright colors and various textured items. He has so much fresh food, and it is this, finally, that makes me understand how rich he must be. Even with the apartment, the car, the furniture—he still could have been a normal, middle-class citizen. It is the food that’s truly rare.
It’s different, too. It seems to me that where the clothes and the furnishings are decided for him, and endured because he doesn’t really know what he wants, the food is something that he is careful with, selective and precise. There is reverence, here in these shelves. And that is forgivable. I can allow him this gross excess in the face of all the starvation in the world, simply because I am a girl who loves it when people love .
I backtrack to the entrance of the pantry and lean against the doorway, watching him. He’s lost in the food and the music. I realize I want to play for him, and I have never wanted to play in front of anyone, not since I first started teaching myself. “What are you making?” I ask softly.
“Poison,” he replies. After a moment he smiles. “That’s what Mom always used to reply when we asked her what she was cooking.”
My nose crinkles but I am suddenly immersed in imagining his family. He has a lovely mother, I bet. Perfect. She scolds him and encourages him, and cooks him anything he wants. She doesn’t let him stay up too late, because he has school in the morning, and she helps him with his homework, and watches all of his sports games. He probably has a big family. Two brothers and a sister they all adore. His father is a strong man who works hard—maybe he was a prosecutor before Luke, perhaps it’s a family business. They sit down to dinner together every night and laugh over inside
Sitting on a bench stool I say, “You have enough condoms to supply a nation of sex addicts.”
He stops chopping and looks into my eyes. Slowly he smiles. “Well at least you can’t say I’m irresponsible.”
I snort. “I don’t feel any less grossed out by you, that’s for sure.”
“Music,” he says, but not to me. “Blue and white.”
Music starts to play from speakers, something I’ve never heard that’s fun and lively. “Blue and White?” I ask, assuming this must be the name of the band.
“I’m synesthetic,” he explains. “Means I remember things in color and shape and texture. Blue and white music for me is upbeat, something with a lot of bass, stuff that makes you want to dance. I programmed my sound system to understand color cues.”
I feel thrilled by this insight. My eidetic memory is rare, but so is Luke’s synesthesia. The percentage of people who have true synesthesia is roughly 0.05.
“You know apparently everyone was once synesthetic?” I tell him. “Back when the various parts of our brains were all connected. Now our brains are essentially separate, so you’re really rare. It means your brain will have to work harder to make connections, but I imagine it must be beautiful in that head of yours.”
Luke smiles. He watches me, lost in thought.
“What color am I?” I ask. If he says red, I might die.
“Sort of … bluey greeny, with darker edges. Smooth and clear.”
I think about that and find that I like it. “What other things have color?”
“Everything. It’s how I remember names, places, streets … everything. Your color might change if my thoughts of you change, but I highly doubt they will.”
I’m not sure what this means. I decide not to ask, unsure if it would be worse if his thoughts about me were positive or negative. I peer around the kitchen and spot a spectacular collection of wine, rows and rows and rows. I jump off the stool and inspect it, running my fingers along the bottles. At the end of the Wall of Wine is the pantry. This is as big as his oversized wardrobe. I wander inside and am met by a wave of smell. Spices and herbs line an entire shelf. Bottles and jars and containers full of bright colors and various textured items. He has so much fresh food, and it is this, finally, that makes me understand how rich he must be. Even with the apartment, the car, the furniture—he still could have been a normal, middle-class citizen. It is the food that’s truly rare.
It’s different, too. It seems to me that where the clothes and the furnishings are decided for him, and endured because he doesn’t really know what he wants, the food is something that he is careful with, selective and precise. There is reverence, here in these shelves. And that is forgivable. I can allow him this gross excess in the face of all the starvation in the world, simply because I am a girl who loves it when people love .
I backtrack to the entrance of the pantry and lean against the doorway, watching him. He’s lost in the food and the music. I realize I want to play for him, and I have never wanted to play in front of anyone, not since I first started teaching myself. “What are you making?” I ask softly.
“Poison,” he replies. After a moment he smiles. “That’s what Mom always used to reply when we asked her what she was cooking.”
My nose crinkles but I am suddenly immersed in imagining his family. He has a lovely mother, I bet. Perfect. She scolds him and encourages him, and cooks him anything he wants. She doesn’t let him stay up too late, because he has school in the morning, and she helps him with his homework, and watches all of his sports games. He probably has a big family. Two brothers and a sister they all adore. His father is a strong man who works hard—maybe he was a prosecutor before Luke, perhaps it’s a family business. They sit down to dinner together every night and laugh over inside
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