Shades of Grey

The world was grey. That was how she had always defined it — on a scale of white to black, how grey the world felt to her every time she remembered feeling. And for the past few years, it had usually been grey, reducing in brightness, silently inching towards black when no one noticed, sometimes even her. It was always people. The more people she met, the greyer she felt, as if they were drops of dark paint mixed together, their blackness only increasing in intensity as they joined each other. It was people that made the world cruel.

On the rare days that it was more white than black, she kept to herself, afraid that if she engaged with others, they would add to the intensity, forcefully pulling her lifeless scale to the other side. They asked her how she felt on the days that she felt okay. They consoled her on the days that she didn’t need consoling and when they asked her what was wrong, she replied, ‘Nothing.’ But on the days that something was wrong, they never asked, as if they expected her only answer to last an eternity, defining her state from life to death. Perhaps it was just the way she was, but she had always seen the world as something meant to break her down with its irony, something meant to cause pain, and when, or if she eventually climbed back up, it was consistent enough to remind her how powerless she was, like an arrogant ruler proving his might.

It was one of those days when the world was more black than white as if black was all that existed on her scale. It seemed that the white had decreased in length and had given away part of itself to the black, just like her happiness had been torn away by her fear of it not lasting long. The fear was right. The happiness was too generous. It gave away part of itself to the misery whenever misery asked, then got so used to it, that eventually misery no longer had to ask.

And then came the people, the ones who felt they were obliged to ruin everything. The ones who never asked what was wrong, only added to the wrongness. The ones who put further pressure on the anvil that had already taken permanent residence in her mind. They told her they had always tried to help, but she had never understood who they had always talked about helping, because she had only suffered by their help, never felt consoled.

Those were the thoughts that ran through her head as she stood lifeless in her work building, the elevator speeding upwards as if encouraging her will to get it done as people had never been able to. Her eyes were lifeless and black because black was all she felt that day. If the world was so cruel to her, why should she be shameless enough to be part of it? If she couldn’t choose how she lived her life, she should at least have the chance to change how it ended. It was bittersweet how the one moment she felt in control was the one where she had chosen to end her life.

Her feet led her body out of the elevator on the top floor and up the stairs that led to the rooftop. Her feet were the one thing she felt, and it seemed as if they were dragging her body along. A body that had no will of its own, no idea of where it wanted to be and what it wanted to do. Her steps dragged her past the door, through the short distance that felt like an eternity, and she found herself standing on the ledge of the roof before she could remember how she had gotten there. She stood there lifelessly inhaling the wind, the memories of the past decade streaming past her like fastening frames of a video, parts skipped by someone who had no interest in watching any of it.

And just as she was about to give in to the pull of her decision, she felt it. A tiny raindrop that fell against her cheek, reminding her what it felt like to feel. It stung her face, burning it hollow, as if providing an escape for all the miseries that she had held in for years. She felt her hair flapping in the wind, slowly remembering the feeling of feeling. She looked up to be greeted by strong thundering in the clouds that were illuminated by the occasional lightning. The world was grey.

It was grey and not black, and she stared at it with half-open eyes until she felt her mind ease, only enough for what she felt to not be black anymore. The ease provided thoughts, and thoughts led to realization. Although the people that resided in it were cruel enough to drive her to the only escape she thought possible, perhaps the world was there to remind her that it was not defined by the people that occupied it, the way she might not have been defined by the thoughts that constantly occupied her mind. Perhaps it was its way of asking her what was wrong on the days that everything was wrong, the days that people were too busy to see through her and the days that her miseries went unnoticed. The rain continued to drench her face like the consoling hands of a person that she had never felt stroking her, and soon she could no longer tell if it was the rain that wet her face or the tears seeping through her own eyes. Perhaps this was the world’s way of assuring her that grey was better than black and that one day there would be white. Perhaps it was its way of asking her to stay.

And though it had been so cold and cruel to her, it screamed for her when she most needed it. The world cried, and she cried with it.