Orson

Dreary, she thinks as she gazes into the stormy evening sky. Strange, because yesterday's forecast called for a humid, sunny day. This is depressing.

A solid blanket of grey thunderclouds obscure all promise of sunshine. Any moment, those clouds will burst and spill their contents around her. Before that happens, however, she expects to be well on her way out of town.

"Ma'am?" the deep voice of the man next to her says.

He is a giant of a man, standing near to seven feet tall. Alabaster skin and periwinkle eyes. It reminds her of a painting she saw in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, only the painting had spoke beauties to her, which is not now the case. Her companion is darker than art, if possible. Darker than night even, although he was as pale as paper. Had a brush stroked this man's creation, it would be wielded by terribly disturbed hands.

Dreary, she thought again.

He holds out a long, suit sleeve coated arm. She lays her arm upon his and her hand in his. Cold, but not so much that she feels an urge to withdraw.

"I suspect Orson will be waiting?" she asks.

"Yes, ma'am," he says with the kind of voice that silences all else.

She nods, pulls in a brave breath, and steps. He leads her to the door of a shiny black Rolls Royce. She cocks her brow.

"It's an upgrade," he says.

The door opens without any physical coaxing, revealing a leather coated interior. It smells of decay. As she lowers into it, she feels as though she could be lowering into a grave. Her bottom hits the seat, the coffin hits the ground. The door closes and for a moment she is alone. Perhaps the idea of fleeing this situation would have struck most by now, but not her. She has faced much worse than this associate and this coffin he drives. And the idea of seeing Orson is such a sweet gift, this ghastly payment is easy enough for her.

They slip by gloomy trees with their leaves drooping. Their vibrant green colors fading to brown. She no more than blinks, then they're surrounded in an earthy tone.

"We're here?" she says. "Already?"

"The trip is faster when you relax," he says.

The door opens and he is there, even though the echo of his voice still rings from the front seat. Again she takes his icy hand. Once more, the door closes of its own movement, but she doesn't notice. Ahead, from a crowd of people, all lacking any colors on the spectrum more vibrant than greys, a pale grey lady dashes forward. Her hair is thick and wavy, yet dull. Her eyes are wide in excitement or terror, it was hard to tell.

"Mira? Mira is that you?" she said hopefully. Upon her head, harsh, dark grey lines are scratched, displaying the word murderer.

Other heads turned curiously to look at the pair. The woman can see their scratches, too. Thief. Adulterer. Rapist. Liar. They stare at her a beat, and then carry on as though they never saw her.

The woman isn't Mira, and she tells the lady so. The lady goes back to the others, lost in the drab sea of sinners. They seem to lack purpose. As far as the woman can tell, they are merely existing in this place.

The woman turns to address the large man, but he and his coffin have gone.

"Sarah?"

When she hears her name she turns. There is her love, Orson. He looks like he did forty years ago, only grey and sad. Grey and....dreary, she thinks. His forehead scratches say corruption. He looks at her scratches.

"Oh...why, Sarah?" he says, his heart pouring out in his voice. "Why did you do it?"

"Being without you for so long," she says, "was just so dreadfully dreary."

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The End