Colour

There was a time where colours were part of my world, part of everyday life. A simpler time, where life was chaotic but not as heart wrenching as it is now.

I thought I had a right to see the colours of the world, the blue of the sky, the green of the grass, Buffy's blonde hair and Xander's brown. So basic and simple, yet so meaningful.

Before the colours changed, I saw the blue of her shirt, the golden sun shining in her hair as if it were an entity of light itself. I saw the ocean that was her eyes, so easy to get lost in. You could be stranded in them for days yet feel so at peace in their depths.

Then I saw red. The red of blood, the blood that used to run through her veins. The stain tainting her perfect image, the red bleeding into her shirt as it seeped from her wounded heart. Red splattering across my shirt as she fell limply to the ground, stone cold. It was the only colour I saw. All of the others ceased to exist entirely. There was no more blonde, no more blue, no more soft pink lips or ocean-coloured eyes to stare into. Nothing but red.

But red didn't last. It soon became black, the absence of colour, the darkness of destruction. Black was almost a comfort as I didn't want to see anything that could remind me of her. Black could never be linked back to her, she was too good and too pure for it to exist anywhere near her, apart from in me. It also helped me solely focus on revenge, to not be distracted by anything but darkness, but evil. Warren had no other colours in him but black, no remorse, no pity, no shame for what he had done. He took away her colour, her light, her soul. She could see the colours in people, the shades mingling to form an aura. If she could see mine now she would be repulsed by the lack of anything, the void of nothingness. But she'll never see anything anymore. Not now. Not ever again.

However that didn't stay either. The black withered and shrivelled away. In a way it helped to not be shrouded by evil, consumed by rage, but the colours never came back to me. I told no one, of course, they wouldn't understand. You never do until they leave. I did see the colours once though, the one opportunity I got to see her again. My eyes allowed the grey of the stone, the black words so unlike the person whose name they spelt. I suppose I only saw it because it was supposedly linked to her.

Twenty one. She was only twenty one when she died. I can only hope that she can see the colours up in heaven, because I can only see the ones of her gravestone. She was my light, my everything, and when that's taken away you are left in the dark with nothing.

The colours no longer exist now because all traces of them were destroyed along with Tara Maclay's grave which used to stand in a crater previously known as Sunnydale.