I'm so sick of this color. Gray.
Gray floor, gray walls, gray jacket wrapped tight around my arms, gray needles, gray light, gray food, gray sky (which I rarely see). Yet the worst gray was in her eyes. That is when it became the worst color I ever did see.
After I hit Synthia, they took me away, sent me to court, and labeled me a nutcase. Now I am quite literally in a padded cell, in a straight jacket. Thankfully, the music has only subsided to the occasional pathetic string of notes. I became too anguished to inspire anything else, I suppose.
Every night I dream of the tree. And every night, the tree looks a little less dead. This has given me hope; perhaps it is a sign.
But the night Synthia visited me, I only dreamt of a destitute plant, a hollow stump with cobwebs and termites and despair. This is because the life was gone from her eyes, and it was my fault.
Before then, I had virtually no knowledge of what was reaped from the seed I planted, the seed of my bloodied fist. But when they took me to the glass wall sealing me from the outside world, and when this woman I hurt stepped up to it, her eyes opened to reveal nothing but misty silver. The violet, the amethyst, the lilac... it had all retreated from her eyes, and my fury had sent it away. My blow to her face had left her completely blind.
At this I wept. This single result is what at last broke me. This is when the real madness began; not one of outward blame, but one of self-loathing and regret. A pit, not a fire.
Astonished, I cried the only words I could:
"I don't forgive you," she replied coldly.
With that, she disintegrated my heart, and turned the pit into endless.
YOU ARE READING
Sebastian's OrchestraShort Story
A man falls in love, but realizes something much darker and ecstatic lurks beneath his subconscious. What will he make of it? This story speaks to those who struggle to capture the things they dream of, and ties to the journey of finding creative co...