This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/agonyblue on 2024-11-30 02:04:00+00:00.

In eighth grade, I met a girl who swore she saw the color orange every time anybody said the number 12. 

“It was like a halo at the edge of her vision,” she told us, as we bonded over a Twix bar my mom had packed me for lunch. The cafeteria din was overwhelming, I remember, but me and my friends had sat there captivated by the newest member of our group. 

“What about the number 13? Or 14?” My friend Jessica asked, in hushed tones.

But Lila shrugged, her blonde curls bouncing. “It doesn’t work like that.” 

Because it wasn’t just the color orange and the number 12. Lila’s synesthesia was one of the most progressed cases that doctors had ever seen. When she said the word cake, she tasted the color blue. When she heard trumpets, she swore she saw the color red. And when she multiplied certain numbers together, it was like fireworks. 

A beautiful, but confusing, way to look at the world. 

Of course, there’d always been hints that she was different, even when she was a baby. Lila was the youngest of three girls, born on the Summer Solstice and under a full moon. She’d been an early, easy, and silent birth. 

“Didn’t cry once,” her mother told my mom after they became fast friends at the bus stop dropoff. “Not a peep. In fact, she didn’t utter a single word until she was almost three years old.” 

My mother, a child psychologist, found that… interesting. Especially; after Lila’s mom told her how she’d discovered Lila drawing a pitch-perfect rendition of a red apple at the age of one. 

By the time I met her, Lila’s diagnosis had progressed to the point where her parents were starting to get severely worried. They’d moved back to Mooresville, Alabama, where both sets of grandparents lived, and where everyone could keep an eye on her.  

But to me, and my friends, she was just Lila. Moody, unusual, but most of all, interesting. There was a joke that our friend group liked to tell, especially as we got older and graduated into high school and beyond- some people could tell the weather based on pain in bum knees, but we could predict the inclement weather based on how stormy Lila’s temperament was. 

Even as a kid, she was like a tempest brought down to Earth, with her rain and clouds clearing only after she’d poured those feelings onto whatever canvas was closest. 

On the last day of high school, my friends and I had gathered in Jessica’s backyard, for one last bonfire and soiree. Lila had come, much to our surprise, as we hadn’t seen much of her recently. Because you see, at this point, Lila had been discovered for her work. Known for painting wild landscapes and scenes, using colors and shapes that were completely unexpected. Unfortunately, she was also known for her wild temper as well. In fact, she was becoming renowned for it. 

In college, I’d visited her in New York where she was studying under the tutelage of Trudy Benson, and was getting ready to submit her work for her first gallery showing. We did the usual tour of New York; shopping, eating, drinking, but with Lila- we spent most of the time in museums. And art galleries. 

On the last day of my trip to New York, we ended up spending the entire day in the Frick Collection. After wandering around for hours, tired, hungry, and lost, I’d spent the end half of my afternoon searching for her, only to find her standing stock-still, weeping in front of Monet’s The Garden. 

She was like that. A wild, colorful, beautiful thing lost in a sea of gray. 

We’d sort of lost touch after that, despite my best efforts, until three weeks ago when I’d suddenly received an invitation out of the blue. It was to the first *official* gallery showing of Lila Brown’s work, and her gallery was going crazy. She, and everyone else, was gearing up for the biggest art release that the underground art market had seen in years when suddenly… 

Lila Brown was reported missing. 

No one knew where she was, or what had happened. Cops couldn’t find any trace of where she’d gone, and her publicist and manager was bewildered and enraged. This wasn’t a stunt she was pulling to drive up prices; she was truly missing. 

My mom made me go to the show. 

The gallery was dim, with stark-white lighting throwing her pieces into relief. It was a sharp juxtaposition with the crowds outside, with people literally clawing at the door to be let in. She had painted thirteen enormous pieces, the canvas stretching from practically floor to ceiling. 

And the pieces themselves, they were, well…. Beautiful. And terrifying, because again, this was Lila Brown. Shapes and colors swirling into pools of red and gold and white, erupting back up into… figures. Self portraits. Lila Brown had painted herself into every single piece. 

She was different in each one, not always human, but still recognizable all the same. I felt tears rise in the back of my throat, as I realized something, and my head suddenly grew very hot and heavy. 

There, in the colors and shapes and swirls, she’d found what she was always looking for. A reality that finally matched what she’d always seen. You see, Lila Brown was finally happy. 

Gentle elevator music played overhead as I turned on my heel and walked out the door.