Secretive - Bucky Barnes

23 || Something Like Reincarnation

Grey. Oh, I how much I hate the color grey. Always did. Always will.

Back then not for the same reasons as today, though, and a little less. Grey has always been a resemblance of something half to me – it's not as clean as white. Not as pure, as symbolic. Not the color of a beautiful swan or a majestic horse.
It's rather like a spotted version of white, something in between, something that you can rub and rub as long as you want, and it just doesn't get clean. An annoying stain on an otherwise colorful pallet, so monotone and dreary, dull.
It's not as strong as black, either. There's no real emphasis to it, no pressure. Nothing to categorize into good or bad, heavenly or evil. It's just nothing.
And the lighter it gets, the less serious of an omen that boring mix of two becomes. There's simply no point to its existence except for the color of clouds, and although these indeed are necessary for the survival of living creatures, the rain and storms they bring make the shade even more distasteful.

It's simply non-saying. While green has the lyrical meaning of envy, blue is the color of a wonderful day's sky, red the color of love and aggression – it's truly ironic how these two both got associated with the same thing –, and orange warms the mood, grey is just grey. Nothing solid. Nothing behind or front, nothing within or out. It's just grey.

After I met James, – and thanks to anyone that is currently higher-ranked in the universe than I am, he got rid of it – that fucking Titanium arm is what really made me hate the color. Because grey is nothing else than matt silver – another trait that makes me almost shiver in disgust thinking about it. I mean, well, the latter is determined by evolution – I won't forget that celestial comment about silver meaning an insult. Must be in my veins then, too. Maybe that's also a reason for me always having not a single good thing to say about grey. It doesn't even reach the level of silver.

Accordingly annoyed I am sitting in one of the conference rooms that are nothing but.
Grey walls. Darker grey tables with silver piles, reflecting the white light from above that seems to mock it for not being as unalloyed. Middle-grey chairs, if there's anything like it. Dark, dark carpet but not dark enough to be black. Even the clouds outside, covering the sky thickly like an angel's vomit, are the dark kind of grey today.

I shouldn't think or say so much about heavenly creatures, shouldn't really use them in daily phrases anymore.

Because it's all real. And might get back at me for one thing or the other.

And much less should I sit here waiting. This is the first time in months, years that my body hasn't moved, and I'm just about to lose the grip I have on the weight that threatens to pull me deep into the icy sea, let it devour me, swallow me whole. If my fingers let that grip slip, I might never surface again. And I can't let that happen, regardless of how heavy the anvil wrapped around my knuckle with a thorny silver thread is. 

There it is again. Silver. Urgh.

But it is him who asked me to wait.

And so, I did. Patiently. For ten minutes, twenty. Half an hour now.

Because he's the order to my behavior, the God to my priest, the light to my darkness. Short: I crave him enough that I'm willing to pass my very very spare free time doing nothing productive.

Admittedly, maybe I didn't wait that patiently. After all, I'm sitting here without the ability to stop moving my leg up and down to an unknown rhythm, mind occupied by the question What is important enough to talk about when I could also make a definite plan on saving the world?

Once again, I lay my head into my neck, trying to take a deep breath. I already know the ceiling is made of thirty-six white plates and two of the long neon-pipes pouring in a white brightness and making the room even less colorful. I, too, know that the room is probably about fifteen times fifteen meters. I don't know why it's a necessity to have this much of space, including the whiteboard for only two people. Does he want to draw a concept map of what has gone wrong in our relationship? Oh Lord, that whiteboard wouldn't have enough space if we typed in Times New Roman in size twelve.