One Good Monday

Gloomy is the only word I can use to describe the beginning of this story. Dim lit, early morning sky filled with clouds and tears propelling down, making their way into every crevice the city holds. Deep inside the gutters below was only darkness. The cobble stones once filled with happy people, now empty, as the bricks destroy the movement of the rain, ceasing the life within the little suicidal lifeforms. As if a skirt riding up at a burlesque show the clouds separate, teasing the sun only to get even darker than they once were. Not a sore in the sky as all the winged friends feet stay nailed to their nests, dodging the ever-increasingly cold English morning. The air nonconsensually turning the once-texture less entities into little bullets not-so-gently pinching my skin. High up in the trees, the branches struggled for inner and outer strength to carry on. The very few trees choking on the petrol. The smoke filling their leaves replacing the oxygen they once needed to survive. Adapting to the chaos around them these trees stand in one of the last parks within the dampest of cities. Wildlife is obsolete, no giggles of children, the movement of those below the trees seeming forced; no one wishing this upon their worst enemy.

"Everyday feels like a Monday," Says Dorris Wilberry, her long dress absorbing the stormy air with not a care in the world as she sat on the bench. Not to feed birds, not to read, just to sit and frown, something she happened to be very good at. Mrs. Wilberry has to be the grouchiest lady that ever did live. Her face is as sour as the sweets she sucks due to years of smoking. In a world where sadness is the norm, her unpleasant remarks and evident disapproval of youngins' did not bring an ounce of joy, not even to her own daughters, one of whom was my mother, Mrs. Flora Francis Faw (yes there is one more...) Francheska Wilberry. 

She did not inherit much from my Gran, her eyes twinkling of tears and anger almost always. I am so used to her anger that I believe her eyes are now red, due to blood shot. No longer can I see the beautiful blue eyes I wish I had myself. Frowns grace her face as well as a knife puncturing the most orange of pumpkins on Halloween. Her hair is a wild mess, being the rope she pulled on for sanity. Her dress sense is always immaculate, but colourless. I have a far more unique love of the clothes I adorned my body with but that wasn't allowed here. Any colour is seen as unseemly and, as for patterns, god forbid. 

Do I like being sad? It's all I've ever known. It's all I wish to know. What is happiness? A mere emotion with sadness on its coat tails, destined to inevitably break down my grin. I refuse to allow that to happen. If you are always sad are you still sad? Genius, I thought to myself knowing quite well that I was anything but. Was Albert Einstein sad? No. I could've sworn that I saw him smile once. Was he also on anti-depressants? The world before pharmaceutical drugs, I remember that world. I also remember being happy, both things I do not miss. Missing people, loss, that I still feel. Perhaps, I think happiness is what prevents people to achieve success; happiness gets peoples hopes up. Heartbreak alone can take years of recovery and can actually cause physical damage to the body. Despite everyone being plastic these days, stress is a thing of the past. Anxiety. Everyone has it so it's no longer a "Bring awareness" topic. No one is trying to stop it anymore. We have simply learned to accept it, or that's what the news says. Media is designed to tell us important events happening around the world but surprise! Nothing's actually important. The stock market is important, advertisements for food and beverages are important to fuel the body but it does not bring me joy to eat, it is merely a necessity. Television is paid for by the government which is nice, I guess. 

Now I assume you expect me to say that I want something to change my demeanor, that I wish every day and night, that I cry myself to sleep for some happiness. Nope. My little sister Cherry does. Too happy a name in my personal opinion but it very much suits her. She smiles more than anyone in town. Sometimes Mum buys her a sweet to stick in her mouth to mask the pearly whites of happiness. We are not forced to be sad but when nothing makes you happy, happiness sticks out like a knife in the hand of that guy you don't trust standing right behind you. Just kidding. You can stop looking behind you now. 

Dark humour still tickles my fancy. In fact, the general interest in horror movies and psychological thrillers has risen almost 80%. I love money, the most substantial, every-growing, powerful thing on earth. Like a monster searching to destroy its masters, sensing fear, incapability, unluckiness, it’s a dog-eat-dog beast with the sole purpose of being a colossal pain on everyone's shoulders. Sure, some people have less pain but the fear of the pain returning is always there. Money is always forever inconsistent, leaving you in a constant state of fear. I did say we stopped caring, most of us did. But the power money holds is something I find myself very drawn to, for all the wrong and right reasons. 

Right and wrong is merely a superstition at this point, or so I like to convince myself when I am scolded for the 100th time of the day. Speaking of which, SHE is ringing me right now. One moment. "Lillith Delilah Dalorence (yep, I got stuck with it too) Jennifer Willberry. You know what my sisters name is? Cherry Auberry Willberry, Mum says she could not be bothered thinking up three middle names for her. What a cop out. As soon as I was old enough to make a decision I decided to only call her Cherry as her full name had far too many "Berry's" in it. "Mate, what is with using my full name?" I ask confused, pondering what I had done today to disobey her every wishes (mentally rolling my eyes on that one). "You forgot to do the dishes, it is raining (as usual) and you know how I feel about dirty dishes stinking up the kitchen on a rainy day." Annoyed, pathetic, irritated, the only emotions I felt consistently-constantly thanks to HER. I swear my Mum would blame me for the weather, if I could move the clouds with my mind, trust me I would, Mum. "Right, bye" I was going to say sorry, I did think about it. But what truly is the point anyways? I just wanted to be in my room, my hideaway where I spoiled myself with every colour of the rainbow, cloths perfect for designing from my imagination. It was hard to find colour-matching inspiration when the world was so grey. Success was my motivation. Dress for success was quite literally what I aimed to do, Mum disapproved of course. My Gran and Grandad died within the same month last year, I cried, tears fell out of my eyes like the loud water crashing against the plates I was now forced to wash. It was unseemly to cry, but when you're always sad they do often peek out the corners every once and a while. Skin becomes cold, eyes stop blinking, breath gets shallower no one notices the sadness. In a world of grey-coloured glasses. Even if I did have real problems would anyone care? 

That's them, I say to myself drying my hands, cold as ice as I feel a gentle shiver of pain fly through my body reacting to the chilly air now encasing my hands entirely. "Got the house to myself now. Whoo hoo, Too bad I have to go to school tomorrow so I cannot be up late. Cannot be bothered with friendships, they all end in disaster so why bother? If heartbreak is inevitable I cease wanting a heart at all. Stop my beating heart. 

Crash! "What in god's name was that?" I say feeling fear for the first time in a while. I walk over to the now smashed window, a rock. "Read it." Said a voice from seemingly out of nowhere, hiding amongst the fog and rain of the grey world beyond the curtains. "Will you be my Valentine?" scribbled, nearly not-legible white smudged marker as if a 1-star graffiti artist had vandalized nature's ideal rock for throwing at those you do not trust. But it was cute. Wait, did I just think that? "Cheers for breaking my window!" I shouted back with a shade of pink desperately trying to break free from my pale exterior. Silence once more, the glass glistening on the floor. 

How beautifully... dangerous I thought to myself imagining every enemy I had "accidentally" stepping on a few lego blocks and new glass carpet. My hand miraculously feels warmer holding this unusually smooth rock. I wonder who's hand threw this rock-broke the window. I thought to myself remembering the main focus here, despair. Cannot forget that. No rock will change that. The wind now fully breaking and entering into my living room, I shall be blamed for this, I just know it. I'm going to go outside and see who the perpetrator is and get my favourite thing besides money... revenge. The sky is still dark, I know you cannot see but i'm wearing all purple and I've already caught four grannies disapprovingly glaring at me from across the road, so I told them to get stuffed and now I feel better. I do not know where the stone thrower is. Or if I will ever see them again. The rain continued to be skin-pinching near-ice pellets raining down above me.

I do not like to listen to music anymore. Gives me too many emotions. So instead, I create in protest of the hopeless world around me. The wind is jostling my hair, I can feel every part of me that is not protected from the chaos around me. “I should’ve worn my yellow mittens, they would have been the pop of colour I needed.” I thought to myself still desperately looking everywhere for a sign of who threw the rock. As if even possible, I felt whatever sunlight that managed to escape from the clouds lose its energy, whatever warmth I was feeling was all gone, except this strange feeling inside me. It felt red, was it anger? No, couldn’t be. I didn’t actually care that the window was smashed, I liked broken things, because I too am broken. I’m turning back I say to myself out loud. Talking to myself was a great coping mechanism for all of my many issues, why talk to humans who will eventually betray you? When you can talk to your only friend, yourself. Besides, that’s self love isn’t it? I hadn’t missed having friends, the peace and quiet...sure my thoughts were scary but now they are all I hear, besides when Cherry listens to the telly on full.

The wind began to pick up and I’m scared my purple blouse will fail to dry without shrinking. “I give up on the rock thrower.” The walk home was... shall I say more unpleasant than usual? Lucky for me Mum has gotten home from work the moment I arrived back. “Purple, you could see that outfit from space, don’t know why you would want to put yourself in that position, it’s not like you’re trying to attract a purple lover, now are you?” My Mum said as chuffed as always. “Right, cool” A piece of hair fell in front of my face, easily distracting me from the rumbling of a loud motorbike. 

I remember when my hair was red, I pause to think for a moment. Red like my father's, everyone's hair and clothes and makeup was only dark, I for one dyed it so that my hair did not clash with the colours I chose to wear, or that is what I told myself as it was not my choice to dye it. "Your coloured hair will stick out, this colours looks fine now," my Mother said three years ago, dark ever since, as if the original colour was dead a long time ago. “Now you purple monster, help me with these bags.” 

Nope, you heard it here folks, no please. I, on the other hand disliked people so much that I was overtly polite when I wanted something, no one expects it, peasants. I don’t say a word, why would I? Little purple monster? Yeah, love my new nickname. Putting away the shopping bags felt like centuries, I desperately wanted to be alone in my room in pitch blackness, experimenting with the one shade of glow in the dark green I planned for a skirt I saw in my dream. In my room now, the silence is nice. I think to myself pulling out the little troublesome rock that had just sore threw the air with its only destination, me. Sitting in silence, darkness inside and out, I suddenly hear a a loud crash, the initial noise so startling I feel my heart beat increasing and a single tear leave its prison within my now slightly blood shot eye. Without hesitation I run to the guest room knowing that there would be a small but deadly rock laying on the glass carpet...again. "Windows are broken, stones have been thrown, do you really wish to stay this alone?" Persistent, I'll give them that. I say laughing to myself. "What was that noise?" My Mum screams at me from downstairs, "I broke a window, do not worry I will pay for it." I say crossing my fingers she does not come upstairs. I decide to peak outside the window this time, a boy, a light-haired boy. I had not seen that in a while, as if the light shined just for him, he smiled up at me with sparkling green eyes. So much colour I said to myself feeling drawn to leave my room.

Dark navy jeans with a light green t-shirt. Green, the colour of grass before the pollution. My feet feel as if they are hovering down the stairs slamming the front door. There he is in front of me, about three inches taller than me "Sorry about the window" Without a hesitation in his voice he looked at me as if my soul was whispering to him and I did not know what it was saying. I heard a faint bird chirp as if by magic but it could have also been a cat reacting to being hit by a car, no one cared. Only me, or I once did. "You should be." I say holding both rocks in my hand. "I thought the first window would have given me an answer." He said passionately. "Well, no." I say finding myself looking at the ground, as if my eyes were scared of his piercing green eyes. What a beautiful shade of green. "No? Is that your answer?" He says without an emotion on his face. "Well, no, no isn't my answer, I mean no I don't really know." I say fumbling and tumbling over my words as if I had been pushed down a hill. "I shall count that as a yes then." He says sticking out his hand. with zero doubt I grab it, feeling as if the world was beginning to be a little less grayer. "How do you know me?" I say still holding his hand completely captured by his eyes gaze. "Victor, James, Wilson, Mortimus Eros III. He said almost bowing making sure that my hand was protected in his. "The longest name in history, I am well aware." He said smiling, a handsome smile." I just moved here, I saw you helping your mum with groceries and had my breath rudely taken away when I saw the colour purple," he said cheekily. I am pretty much speechless. "Welcome to the neighborhood, valentine." I say trying my hardest not to smile but failing miserably. "Nearly there." he said squeezing my hand ever so gently as if to egg my smile on further. "Let me take you somewhere." He said pointing to his bike, a motorbike, a gorgeous bright red motorbike. I wondered why I had not seen it sooner. The colour was so vibrant I could almost hear the frowns of disapproval around me. “Okay,” I say with anticipation. 

My Father used to ride, I could do this. The fear was so thrilling. As I felt my legs start to shake I edged my way up behind him grabbing his shoulders tightly. "I apologize I am such a baby." I say embarrassed my pale cheeks still ceasing to allow the pink as if white paint had destroyed attempts of colour on a canvas. "Do not worry. I've got you." He said tapping my hand's knuckled with his hand, returning back to the controls. "Lets go!" He said, as the world flies by. I see grey, only colour in front. What should have been hearts in every store window was merely fairy lights from three years ago, store owners had not cared to remove. But I was here, with Victor and he was colour and I was colour. What a Valentines Day I thought to myself. 

The storm had settled, the sun had achieved its freedom and I saw colour, happy to see the future. For once.

Was this what a rainbow felt like? The end.