CYAN
I'm so bored.
So, so, so bored.
I said it out loud, my voice drifting off the balcony in a light, sing-song lilt that sounded almost like a nursery rhyme. It was a beautiful sound, musical, airy, perfectly pleasant. If you were standing on the beach below, you'd think I was just another rich boy sighing over which vintage of champagne to open next.
The reality was a bit more… jagged. This wasn't the kind of boredom you get on a rainy Sunday afternoon. This was the heavy kind. The kind that feels like lead in your veins and static in your brain. This was the kind of boredom that makes you want to see what color your insides are, just for a change of pace.
I was at the beach house. One of many properties scattered across the coast like discarded toys, all courtesy of Dad's bottomless pockets. It was a masterpiece of architecture, glass, white stone, and sweeping curves. The balcony was enormous, overlooking an ocean that was currently doing its best impression of a postcard.
