A Colorless World

A colorless world

I am a nameless protagonist in a never-ending story set in a bleak and desolate place.

This world has lost all color. Even the vibrancy of my memories has completely faded. Whatever spectrum once existed, or whatever spectrum I thought existed, has long since been corrupted and decomposed. I see only in black and white and grey. And red. So much red.

Red fire. Red blood. Red thoughts.

The world around me has become infected. It is sick. It is dying. I can see the black necrosis creeping over everything. Creeping over me. I can smell it and taste it. It is the only thing I can smell or taste.

Nature has been replaced by machinery and death. Grotesque trees with branches and pedals of paper and metal. Endless birdsongs of buzzing drones. Gentle breezes replaced by the constant white noise of humming radio static with no one and nothing on the other side.

There is no blue sky. Only grey smoke. There are no pastures and rolling hills of green grass. Only black rot and char. No plants or flowers. Only gardens of red flesh and white bones.

The birds are black. The other animals are dead.

And we have made it this way.

I have been here long enough to see most of my friends die. Those who are still here have also become colorless and unrecognizable. Their pale white skin covered by powdered black soot and festering red wounds.

The blood starts out as red, but that too soon fades to a decrepit rotten black.

Even the unique colors of their eyes have all faded. They all look the exact same. I do not know them anymore. I am sure they have forgotten me as well. I have certainly forgotten myself.

When they die, they are an alabaster white. And then a ghoulish blue. And then a rotten black. And then their bones are white.

There is still color in other parts of the world. People still look different and unique. But not here.

The men who decide to kill the world do so in beautiful ornate offices carved out of aged mahogany with beautiful rich tones of brown and gold and little flecks of orange and yellow swirling within the woodwork. They wear supple suits and ties made of vibrant tonal textiles. Navy blue with burnt orange, forest green with midnight polka dots, deep maroon with silver and onyx plaid. Their hair is platinum blonde, and dark brown, and strawberry red, and jet black. Their eyes are ocean blue, or hazel green, or a rich chestnut brown.

But here. Everything is colorless. Because of the men who kill the world. And because we kill it for them.

The gunfire lights up our faces, but this only momentarily casts a hellish crimson over our unflinching masks. We look like devils. Like demons. These flashes reveal no emotions. No happiness. No fear. Nothing. Only ghostly white faces covered in vile black filth and visceral red gore.

When the artillery lands, the bright red flames reflect off the thick grey smoke and shine back down onto the charred black earth. Everywhere I look all I see is black and red and white and grey.  If it weren’t for the fact that I can feel my feet planted beneath me, I would not be able to tell which way was up or down. But I do not bother to look up or down or left or right. I only look forward. Towards the enemy. And they look like me. Colorless.

The black and grey metal machines of war crawl passed us like exhausted lumbering beasts. They are just as broken and beaten as we are. Caked in umber mud and ash and viscera. They buzz with deafening sounds and spit dark, opaque black plumes of smoke, polluting the air with toxic fumes from gasoline and oil. They drip dark viscous fluids which seep deep into the mud and kill every living thing they come in contact with. Blackening the earth.

When the mortars land, they blast choking grey smoke and dark charred dirt up into the sky. It rains back down upon us. Sometimes when the mortars hit their mark, it rains red too. Slick, metallic, crimson, and dark. What goes up must come back down. On top of us.

And so, we lose even more color.

Some of us still hope for color. Maybe color will come in death. Maybe color will come when the fighting is done. But maybe the fighting will never end. Maybe death is black. Maybe color never existed at all. Maybe the color of life was an illusion all along. I’ve been colorblind for so long I can no longer tell. And I no longer care. And it no longer matters. And maybe it never did.

When I die, and I will die, I think I will embrace the black. Not because I am unafraid to die. But because I am afraid to continue living in this colorless world that I have helped to make. I am afraid to admit that this blackness I have come to hate is my fault. I am to blame. I am black. I am death. I am dead.

There is no point of this colorless story in this colorless world. There is nothing to gleam from the things I have shared. These little colorless pockets have existed in the world since man first stood upright and threw the first stone. Since man first used fire for violence and war instead of warmth and comfort. These colorless pockets continue to grow and grow and grow. As they always have. As they always will.

Because despite whatever color may exist on the surface levels of shared human existence, when enough time comes to pass, the blackness is exposed. We were born this was. And we were raised this way. And We live this way. And One day, the entire world will become colorless.

And it will be our fault. It always has been. It always will be.