Crisis

The ceiling isn’t any colour in particular. This bothers her for a variety of reasons:

  1. It was blue yesterday.
  2. Things usually stay the same colour as they always have been, unless they’re chameleons.
  3. Her ceiling isn’t a chameleon.

The silence all of a sudden isn’t calming but intruding on an otherwise colourful and loud life- perhaps too loud? Perhaps that is why it’s so quiet now- to cover up the loudness of before; to make up for it?

The ceiling could be blue, but it could also be red. Yellow, maybe? Green? Fushia?

A buzz from the phone, but it’s not who she wants to hear from, so it must not exist. It must not exist. It must not….

Maybe the colour of the ceiling doesn’t exist either; has never existed and will never exist, and only just now she’s getting wise to such tricks?

 

Maybe she just needs a brew and some sleep.

 

….

 

The next morning the streets are covered in fog and  several seagulls are fighting over last night’s chips on the boardwalk as she ambles her usual route to work.  Yes, this was just what she needed. The warmth from the tea soon passes out of her body and into the air, adding to the curiosity of the fog. The creeping moss is slowly growing across the flagstones at this time of year, though it too seems slightly off- no longer green. Perhaps a blue or black? She shakes off this idea as just a lingering dream and keeps her gaze turned to the fog that’s supposed to be colourless.

Only life is never that simple, is it?

Because within the fog she sees a thousand more colours, and they are definite and not shadows- every colour in existence at full brightness swirling around, trapped inside the lack of colour that everyone else would be seeing if they were up this early.

What’s happening?

Well, maybe it was a bad coffee. An odd piece of meat in the leftover chilli she had for breakfast. Yes, that’s it. She tightens her scarf around her neck as the wind blows colder, and her feet rap against the frosty stone at a more urgent frequency.

I’m a grown woman, why do I feel like this? Like she could tip over if the wind blew the wrong way; or if anyone on the street came within three feet of her. Her heart is beating frantically against the prison of her ribs; LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.

Of course. My presence has this effect on most humans.

LET 

ME

OUT

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