Say That It's Possible

He writes his plays to be filled with colors.

Phillip's not sure if it's some form of masochism, though it might just be: making his life's work so reliant on something he can't see, something he doesn't experience, something that's still a myth to him utterly and completely that he can't wait to finally be able to discover. But he can't help himself. He lives for descriptions and metaphors, makes sure that the character of a jealous wife he's written throws a dark green vase at her husband's head, but also has the character of a young boy reunite with his mother, running to her safe, expecting arms, in a room with its walls painted green. His coming-of-age play is filled with variations of blue, the freedom of the ocean inspiring him throughout the writing process, being his main tool throughout the work.

He uses up all the different idioms he can think of; writes that she talked a blue streak, that the father recites purple passages, that the lack of company will soon lead them to a brown study.

He says her eyes were as brown as chocolate, that his hair was the color of the yellow sun, that the blood ran red down the boy's scraped knees and that the young-boy-now-a-man ran from his parents' house in a car the color of dark velvet.

Phillip thinks that, if he writes about colors enough, he might delude himself into thinking he can see them.

He's too afraid to admit he doesn't think he ever will.

His plays sell-out within hours, every night a packed house. For the latest one, the critics rave about his use of orange throughout the play: how the dark orange lights amplify the deceit, how its turn towards red send chills down your spine as if you yourself can feel the hidden desire of the characters.

Phillip watches the play opening night and feels nothing.

He never watches it again.

The night P.T. Barnum comes to him, his play focuses on the only two colors he could see, as if he's finally resigned himself in defeat to the world of black and white.

"I thought you were renowned for your use of color."

Phillip lifts his head up, narrows his eyes at P.T. in question. "I wouldn't know."

"Ah." P.T. smiles. It's not in pity, but it's also not mocking. Phillip appreciates it. "You're young. It'll come." he says. "Though, I can't blame you for your impatience. I've met my wife when I was very young, a child. I try not to lose sight of how privileged it made me." he continues and, God, does Phillip want to punch him, knowing the man wouldn't deserve it as he's far from gloating. Still, though, he can't stop the anger boiling in his veins.

(In his play, he would write that his character started seeing red. That he was red with anger. That red anger boiled in his red veins. That-

He stops himself.)

"Are you here to discuss the wonders of what I cannot see, or is there a more pressing matter you wanted to discuss?" he cuts Barnum off. "If not, there's a bottle of really expensive whiskey waiting for me with my name on it."

Phillip turns to leave, but P.T. stops him.

"Is that really how you like to spend your days? Whiskey and misery, and parties and plays?"

"Well, I'm not complaining." Phillip shrugs.

Barnum shakes his head. "That's no life."

"What do you suggest, then?"

P.T. smiles wide. "Join my show."

Phillip agrees for ten percent of the profits. It's not like he's got much to lose, anyways.

P.T. leads him behind the scenes of a show in progress, introducing him to all the different members of this weird makeshift family he's made for himself that aren't currently needed on stage. Phillip shakes hands and smiles politely, but soon finds that the smile he boasts around the people is anything but fake. He quickly starts enjoying the atmosphere, the energy of the crowd around him infecting him as well. Phillip can see why Barnum enjoys being a showman so much, and thinks he might just love it as well.

Still, there's a weird feeling that builds up in his chest as he's only able to view it all in solely black and white, the colors obviously present in the show escaping him. It makes him feel a sense of devastation and, as much as he wants to stay, he also wants to leave.

P.T. pauses in his steps and cuts himself of when he turns towards Phillip, as if he's felt the other man's mood turn sour. Maybe that's why he's as good at entertaining people as he is. Barnum reads him like a book and smiles softly but says nothing of the subject, instead leading him towards the balcony view of the show below. "The trapeze artists are enjoyable no matter the circumstance." he tries lightening the mood. "I consider myself quite a daring man, but seeing them still gives me shivers. The Wheelers surely are something."

Once they reach the balcony, Phillip looks around, seeing the two trapeze artists doing acrobatics he's never witnessed before, and he can feel the vibrations of the audience's loud reactions from his toes to the tips of his fingers.

He's sure he'll get addicted to this feeling. He's not sure, though, whether or not he'll come to regret it.

Suddenly, one of the trapeze artists is swinging towards the balcony and Phillip almost takes a step back, his instincts acting as if he'll get hit.

He looks up at the woman, their eyes locking and - suddenly - the world seems to stop.

Phillip could swear his heart is skipping beats and he can scarcely breathe. The moment feels like an eternity, them not breaking eye-contact, and he's compelled to take his hat off in a form of respect.

It's all so slow but also fast; the colors attack him without warning. It's as if a switch was turned and suddenly everything is brighter, warmer, fuller. His senses feel attacked and he's filled with emotions he can't even begin to describe.

All his mind seems to be able to form is the conscious thought that she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and tears threaten to come to his eyes.

(He's sure he saw her breath hitch, her eyes widen, the smallest shiver go through her before she schools herself back into her motions.)

The moment passes, but Phillip doesn't dare move. All around him, where used to be black and white, there are now colors. He can see the bright colors of the different costumes in the circle, the sea of colors from the audience, the colored light surrounding him coming from places he can't pinpoint. A color sticks out to him, though, and all he can focus on is the red of the curtains and the red of the audience's clothes and the red balloons held by the children in the first rows; all he can focus on is red red red.

Finally, he finds his voice.

"Who's that?" Phillip asks.

Barnum smiles.

(The first color he sees is pink.)