The Color of the Sky

Prairie slid her closet open fifteen-and-a-half inches exactly, ensuring that the runner lined up perfectly with the neat pencil mark she'd made on the doorframe. She counted to five, then reached in and grabbed her Monday outfit. Prairie had one outfit for each day of the week, and an eighth, Emergency Outfit in case Something Went Wrong.

It had been five months, two weeks, and three days since the last time her Emergency Outfit had been needed.

She dressed, carefully watching the clock. Seven minutes and forty seconds - that was the time allocated to dressing. Too slow, and her entire schedule would be thrown out; too fast, and she'd have to fight the impatience while she waited for the clock to run out.

The impatience, and also something else. . .

"No!" she said aloud, shaking her head. Focus on the clock, she reminded herself.

If she focused on the clock, she wouldn't have to feel the anxiety growing in her stomach, the iron fist clamping around her heart, the certainty that she was doomed, everyone was doomed. . .

"Five minutes!" she said loudly, as she pulled her blue leggings up.

"Monday blues, Mondays are blue, we must wear blue on Mondays!" she chanted to herself until she felt better. She knew it didn't mean anything, that she could wear any color she liked but. . .

But now it was a habit. It was the Way Things Were Done, and she couldn't undo it.

If she broke a habit, something dreadful would happen. She didn't know what, but she knew that it would with the same certainty that she knew that the sky was blue.

"Blue like Mondays. Monday blues, Mondays are blue, we must wear blue on Mondays. . ." she muttered.

The clock dinged, and Prairie stepped forward from where she'd been standing patiently at the side of her bed and took three long steps into the bathroom, counting as she went.

"One, two, three. . ."

One minute, ten seconds to brush her teeth and brush her hair, three minutes to straighten the bathroom up, thirteen seconds to walk out into the kitchen/living area, four minutes, twelve seconds to prepare breakfast, five minutes to eat. . .

The soothing repetition of tasks she performed every day of the week, each step accompanied by its own carefully set alarm clock, calmed her hammering heart to a mild murmur.

She washed the dishes, straightened the kitchen, and then sat down once more at the table, placing her phone carefully in front of her, lining it up carefully with the marks she'd ruled on the table for this specific purpose.

She watched the alarm clock closely. One chime to indicate the beginning of The Task, another to signal its (blessed) end. Her day was filled with many tasks, but this task was The Task, the worst one, the one that took all her focus and energy to complete.

The first alarm sounded. Quickly, before she could talk herself out of it, Prairie snatched her phone and hit the '1' on speed dial.

"Hello, my darling, right on time as always!" said her mother on the other end of the line in her usual, slightly mocking tone of desperate cheerfulness. "How are you today?"

"I'm fine," said Prairie, eyes glued to the clock.

Five minutes for The Task. That was all it took, all her mother had managed to negotiate, but it was every day, because her mother thought that Prairie couldn't be trusted to be on her own.

"Did you go to the library like we discussed?"

No.

"Yes," said Prairie, maybe a little too quickly. "I walked in and looked at three book covers and left again."

"Well done!" said her mother, and her praise was genuine, but Prairie still hated it.

Well done, puppy, for performing your trick.

"You see, the world outside your apartment isn't so bad!"

"Yes, mom," said Prairie, wishing that she could control time, make it go faster.

She didn't hate her mom. She even enjoyed speaking to her when it was face-to-face, but they couldn't do that anymore, because if her mom came to her apartment, she would see; a place for everything, everything in its place, drawn blinds, no TV, no books. . .

And Prairie didn't leave anymore.

No, it was the damn phone that she detested, the innocuous electronic rectangle that carried all the world's doom. You never knew what the other person would say. The conversation could go in any direction, and there was nothing you could do. . .

Her heart was pounding again, the blood rushing so loudly in her ears that she missed the next question.

"I'm sorry?" she asked.

"I said that it's grandma's birthday this week, and we were thinking of getting together--"

"No!"

"I know you're not ready to come to a family gathering--"

--five months, two weeks, and three days--

"--but I thought maybe you could FaceTime for a few minutes, she'd love to see you, you know--"

"No!" said Prairie loudly. Then, forcing her voice to be calmer, "No. I have plans for the foreseeable future."

"Okay," said her mother. "That's okay," she added, like she was reminding herself to be gentle, to be understanding.

She bites if you startle her!

"If you change your mind," said her mother into the silence.

"Of course, I'll let you know," said Prairie.

More silence.

"It's only been six months," said her mother.

Five months, two weeks, and three days.

"Yes," said Prairie.

"These things take time."

"Yes."

"But. . .How much more time, do you think?"

"Fifteen seconds left, mom," said Prairie, watching the timer tick down with growing desperation.

"Okay. Well. Anyway. Everything will turn out fine. You cannot stop it."

"What?" demanded Prairie, panic instantly flooding her veins. That last sentence had sounded so deep, so dark, so unavoidable.

"Oh, I don't know why I said that. . ." Prairie could hear the frown in her mother's voice. "What a strange thing for me to say--"

The alarm sounded, and Prairie hung up without saying goodbye. Almost immediately, another alarm sounded, one of seven lined

up neatly on the kitchen table.

"Language learning," muttered Prairie, swiping through her phone to find her language app.

It was very important to dive straight into something else after The Task, and the app wasn't a person, all of the interactions were contained, predictable. . .

She rushed to the end of her lesson, going faster than she meant to (there'd be whole seconds to wait until the next alarm).

The lesson end message popped up on screen. It was always one of three things:

Well done on finishing another lesson!

You're smashing your learning goals! Keep it up!

Did you know: We have live teachers available for one-to-one,

in-depth lessons!

The last one always made her shudder, but she had to read the message anyway. It was the routine.

Today, the message read:

You will succeed. It is inevitable.

Prairie froze.

What did that mean? It was so. . .ominously positive.

More importantly, it was unexpected.

Prairie didn't like things that were unexpected.

"They just added a new message," she told herself. "It's nothing to worry about."

But if she were capable of believing herself, she wouldn't be the person she was.

An alarm was blaring, unheeded. With a start, Prairie turned it off and dashed for her desk in the middle of the otherwise empty living space, sitting down with barely a second to spare. Flustered, she opened her laptop and entered her password, getting it wrong twice before remembering that her employers had made her change it last week, why did they always want her to change it?!?!

"Thirteen seconds!" she gasped when the laptop finally unlocked. Thirteen whole seconds late!

She would have to take a shorter lunch break to make up for it, but even if she did that, her whole day was off track now.

Her hands shook as she logged into the portal, but moments later she was copy-pasting content from one place to another, rearranging data just so and making sure everything was aligned.

Data entry was the perfect job for Prairie. She never had to speak to anyone. The tasks were always the same, were easy to contain and quantify, and could be done entirely from home. She didn't make much, but it was enough to get away from home and the constant eyes. Even after recent events (five months, two weeks, and three days), it still felt safer to be here than there, no matter what anyone else thought. . .

The laptop made a dull bleeping noise.

A mistake! She never made mistakes.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she muttered to the machine, as if it could hear her, as if it cared.

She corrected the error and kept working. She was just getting into the swing of things, just starting to lose herself in her work, when her email pinged.

Prairie didn't get emails. She'd unsubscribed unrelentingly from everything she could. Communications from her boss usually came through the portal, and friends and family had given up emailing her even before (five months, two weeks, and three days) things had gotten worse.

But emails had a Rule.

The Rule was to look at them immediately, no matter what, so they could be dealt with, and equilibrium could be restored.

She opened her mailbox.

The email was from somewhere called SpiritsRUs! Prairie had never heard of them.

The subject immediately made her suspicious: Congratulations! You have won a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

"Definitely spam," she told herself. But the Rule dictated that she open the email anyway, just in case Something Happened if she didn't.

Now that this email has found you, the message began, and now Prairie was certain it was some sort of scam. She'd read ages ago (when she could still read things for fun) that scammers deliberately added spelling mistakes to their messages to sort the easy marks from those who thought too much about these sorts of things. Wasn't this a botched attempt at "I hope this email finds you well"?

But the Rule stated that she had to know exactly what the email was about (Just in Case) before she could delete it.

She kept reading.

Now that this email has found you, after winding its way through

the ether, searching for a way in, we have a message for you.

We (the staff and spirits at SpiritsRUs!) are worried about you,

Prairie. Very worried. We take the responsibility of caring for this world's mortals very seriously, and we think it's time that we stepped in.

You have to leave your apartment. You HAVE to! You cannot stay

in that tiny, two room cage with your blackout curtains drawn forever. We know what you want to say--that that advice doesn't work for everyone, that 'fresh air and exercise' isn't the cure that some think it is, and we agree! All advice is tailor-made to suit the recipient, and we wouldn't suggest it if it wouldn't help you. It's not about fresh air. It's about breaking down a barrier a little barrier, so that other barriers can topple later.

Prairie was shaking.

"What is this?" she demanded of the air. How did they know that she had blackout curtains? How did they know what she was thinking as she read?

Did you know there was a quilt fair two blocks away last Saturday? You LOVE quilting! Did you know that Sarah, the old lady who lived

next door, died yesterday morning? Do you know what color the sky is right now? Don't say 'blue' or 'I don't care' -- you know better, we know better, so what would be the point?

The person who wrote this knew her! They were clearly mad, but they definitely knew her, there was no two ways about it.

The next line nearly stopped her heart.

We know what happened five months, two weeks, and three days

ago.

"How can you?" she shouted. The only people who knew were her and her mother and him.

Was this him? Was this one of his games? Was he trying to scare her?

We know because we know everything, was the next line. We try to stop such things but. . . Well, we could tell you how we're understaffed and about the budget cuts and delays we're experiencing in the Omnipotence Field, but what does that matter to you?

We failed to protect you, and for that we are deeply, deeply sorry.

Please bear with us as we adjust to the times.

One thing we promise: what happened will not happen again. Ever. Whatever you decide next, that is a GUARANTEE!

The capital letters thudded into Prairie's mind with a crash, and she felt the certain, unyielding truth in the words. A tiny light sparked in her mind. It was small and it shivered, but it was there, and it was the first light she had seen in five months, two weeks, and three days.

Now you must choose your next step. Neither choice is a solution, not on it's own. Both choices have the ability to lead you to some sort of closure. Neither choice will undo what happened or wipe it from your mind.

Either choice can be the right one.

Option 1: Stay where you are. Delete this email and return to your work. Find your equilibrium. Keep going until you find the perfect routine to bring you peace.

Option 2: Go outside. Breath the air. And look at the sky. (And, if you like, reply to this email and we'll connect you with a trauma-informed spirit.)

We've rambled enough. Things are a little taut this side of the veil, but you have been bumped to the priority list. We will be there if you decide you need us.

Until then, farewell.

Happiness is coming. You can't escape it.

SpiritsRUs!

Prairie stared blankly at the screen, not sure whether to believe it or not. Were the words really there? Had she really just read what she thought she'd read?

"What do I do?" she whispered.

Her feet decided for her.

Before she could change her mind, she was outside her front door (for the first time in five months, two weeks, and three days) unlocking the seven deadbolts that the landlord was going to be very, very mad about with a speed she didn't think possible.

The corridor was the same as always, not the tunnel of traps and terror her mind insisted it had become. She hesitated. The door swung closed behind her, hitting her bum. She started and checked her pockets. Yes, there were her keys, she'd grabbed them too.

"Hello!" said a cheerful voice. Prairie jumped, and the door clicked closed behind her.

Across the hall was a young boy, about eleven, smiling broadly.

"Hello. . .Harry?" she tried, dredging her memories for clues about her long-forgotten neighbors.

She must have remembered correctly, because Harry quite happily demanded to know, "What are you doing, then?"

"I. . .I thought I would go outside to look at the sky," said Prairie carefully.

Harry's eyes lit up!

"I love the sky! The best place to see it is from the central courtyard. You stand in the middle and look all the way up and there's just a square, but it's different every day like a TV, sometimes there's an airplane and everything!"

At some point during the babble, Prairie didn't know exactly when, Harry had grabbed her hand and was dragging her to the stairs. Her mind bubbled, like Harry's words. It wasn't uplifting, but her brain hadn't dealt with anything but turmoil in five months, two wee--

"About six months," she said loudly.

"What was that, Miss?" asked Harry as they clattered down the three flights of stairs to the courtyard.

"Nothing. Just. . .remembering something."

"Almost there!" said Harry, completely indifferent to the almost-remembered thoughts of random adults. "And. . . here!" he announced triumphantly as they clattered through the doors into the courtyard.

Prairie stared at her feet.

"You have to look up, Miss!" said Harry. "It’s good today!"

"Blue," said Prairie. "It will be blue."

She looked up.

It wasn't blue, unless you called the deep purple hues streaked with bright orange and yellow 'blue'. The clouds reflected the colors, deepening them in some places, lightening them in others.

Prairie stared up in wonder at the roiling, beautiful, gloriously not blue sky.

She took a deep breath.

"Thank you," she muttered, and she didn't even know who she was thanking.

"Told you it was great!" said Harry, gleefully.

Prairie turned and ran for the stairs.

"Miss!" shouted Harry, eyes wide. "Are you alright?"

Prairie paused and turned.

"No," she said. "But I'm working on it. Sorry to run off.

I have an email to write."