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Everything is Grey

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The world happens in black and white. Every dream monochrome. Every sunset devoid of color. Every pair of eyes you’ve ever met a different shade of grey. And that won’t change until you meet your soulmate. You can’t see the world in technicolor until you’ve met your match. Until you've looked into the eyes of the one you'll love. And you never have. Hank’s hair was light grey, his eyes a bit darker. His jeans grey and the ring on your finger dull. But his touch was soft. And he stayed. So you settled. You made peace with the grey.


It’s why you weren’t too upset when you first lost your sight. The acid that burned your skin had hurt, sure—the pain of knowing that someone hated you enough to permanently mar you hit your chest like a ton of bricks—but you weren’t missing anything. Not really. If anything, you didn’t have to be reminded of the monotonous views you’d grown so sick of. The soulmate you’d so longed for but never gotten.


But you did have to be reminded of how very alone you were. How there wasn’t someone there to tell you what colors lit the evening sky. What color dress looked best on you. When the red faded from the scars on your cheeks. But you made peace with the black, just as you’d made peace with the grey.


When you meet Misty Day for the first time, you tell yourself that she probably looks just the same as she had through the television screen. Grey. You hear her release a small gasp when you first walk into the foyer, but you don’t make much of it. She smells of dirt and sweat, and her hands are calloused when they grab onto yours. You see her life flash before you. The fire and the despair. You think you see a small flash of a bird standing out against the grey, but it’s gone before you know it and her hands release you. You never see another flash against the grey of your second sight again.


And so life goes. You do your best to care for your girls, but they see you in nothing more than grey. Nothing more than an existence who occasionally barks orders. Except for Misty Day. You can’t explain it, but she feels different. She sees different. She cares. She’s always there, always beside you, and you don’t mind. You often wonder how it is that life can be so bleak, but she can be so joyous. You don’t notice when she mentions the beautiful color of one of the flowers she’s tending.


When you wake up one morning, you realize that you’re not seeing black anymore. You’re looking up at a white ceiling. Myrtle stands over you, bushy grey hair and light grey eyes looking over you. She’d restored your eyes, back to half-assed sight—back to the grey. You want to be happy. You should be happy. But when you look in the mirror, two different shades look back at you. A tear slides down your cheek as a reminder that though you may have eyes, you still aren’t seeing the world. Not really. And you can’t. Not with somebody else’s eyes.


Misty still manages to look beautiful, though. Even in black and white. The kind of beautiful that Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe are through movie screens, but still not enough. Not in color.


When she sees you, finally seeing her, her smile lights up for a minute. Really lights up, like nothing you’ve ever seen before. It takes your breath for a moment, but it’s still as it was. Grey. She quickly realizes something, though what you’re not sure, and her face falls. Defeated. Because it’s not your eyes she’s looking into, and it’s not your eyes looking at her.


But still you manage to find some semblance of happiness. More than you’ve felt before. When her hand grazes yours or her eyes light up at the sight of a growing plant. When she stands over you protectively as you finally let Hank go and holds you sympathetically as you mourn a foolish love. When she doesn’t know you see her staring, always wondering what she sees when she looks at you like that. You can’t see color, but you imagine she’s the most vibrant of them all.


You barely think twice before you stab your eyes out to find her. You’d rather see her only in your monochrome dreams than to never hear her sweet laugh again. To never feel her spirit. And when you find her—when she wraps her arms around you as though you’re the brightest light in her world—you know that it was worth it. You weren’t missing much anyway.


She dies in your arms. She couldn’t come back. She couldn’t fight off her hell. And you realize with deep despair that you’ll never know the color of her hair. You’ll never know the color of her eyes. She will always be grey.


You don’t expect to rise as the Supreme. If you’re being totally honest with yourself, you don’t really want to. Even though you've gotten your eyes back, your world is still grey. It's still bleak. Even the powers of the Supreme aren’t strong enough to make the world technicolor--to make it worth seeing. But you take on your duties. You watch as your mother somehow turns more and more grey, and then you bury her. You let a tear escape for the bond you never had. You let tears escape each time you're alone for every love you've lost.


You wonder often if it’s worth it—life. If you’d have been better off if you’d have left with Misty that day several years ago. Or been burned alongside Mrytle. If hell is in technicolor. You wonder who around you can tell the color of your blouse or that your eyes never really shine. You meet the eyes of strangers on streets in the hopes of finally knowing the color of a tree’s Autumn leaves. The only thing keeping you going is your girls. You don’t know the color of their eyes, but you can feel the love in their hearts. So you stay. You stay for them. They’re the only thing that makes it worth it, but still everything is grey.


When Mallory shows up, she seems to know you. She seems to see the world as it is. She seems to see a happiness in you that you’ve only ever scratched the surface of. When you lead her back to the foyer, you feel somehow light. Somehow happy, though you’re not sure why. But still, everything is grey. 


When the door opens, seemingly of its own, and you look to see your precious Nan, your heart feels even lighter. But still, everything is grey.


When the next presence walks through the door, your breath stops. Your heart pounds. You barely register the tears flowing from your bright, brown eyes. And you’re not only crying because Misty Day is somehow, unexplainably and miraculously back. You’re crying because you can see her eyes light up when she looks back at you. They’re blue.