Death Of Color

         I am the kind of girl who could see the world clearly, but was colorblind.
         I look out the bus window to the black, white, and gray life going on around me. The world is rushing by me and I am rushing by it. Sometimes I wonder if we will ever crash into each other, but I doubt it. We never have before.
         I close my eyes and feel the memory of two months ago in the back of my mind. It still felt fresh and cold, like the air after a snowfall.
         Mama looks so incredibly silent, finally resting. The cancer has finally won the inevitable war and has left me nothing but a gift of agony in the form of her corpse. I rest my hand on her cheek. She feels cold like ice. Inside, my anger burns like a wildfire. She doesn’t have to fight anymore, yet she shouldn’t have had a fight to be fought in the first place.
         My tears fall into her hair as I cradle her lifeless body. The nurses try to comfort me by saying that she’s in a better place.
         Why would she go to a better place without me?
         I open my eyes and realize that I have pulled the rope to stop the bus. I look out the window again and realize that I am where I am supposed to be. I force myself to stand and walk out from the comfort of the bus. As I walk across the sidewalk, the cold night doesn’t become any bit warmer by the body heat of people walking past.
         This city disgusts me. It is too crowded and loud. It moves in an angry dance and breathes deadly fire, consuming everything vibrant into its monotony. I walk through the people who shove me around and I shove back as I look down at the sidewalk, avoiding puddles from the rain of earlier today.
         Another memory hits me hard. It is a knife slicing into a fresh wound.
         The rain taps on the roof of his truck in an irregular beat. He pulls me into a warm embrace and touches me carefully as if already knowing I could very well just fall apart.
         “She’s dying. They said the tumor is too big. She’s going to die and leave me here alone. She’s going to leave me.”  I whimper, crying and sobbing on his chest.
         “You won’t be alone. I promise, I’ll be here.  Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”  he replies, holding me so tight that I really almost feel he may never let me go.
         But promises are never kept as much as we wish they would be. My fiancé had been so caring, so understanding, holding me up when I was ready to collapse under the weight of my tragic past and present. I saw him as a god…but  was soon reminded just how mortal he was when he died in a car crash on the way to the wedding ceremony. My wedding dress is still in the back of my closet, unused and rotting in mothballs.
         I stop and look up at the familiar skyscraper towering over me. Having already been here many times before, I walk in calmly and hide my thoughts behind a poker-face that I had learned to keep on at all costs.
         I ignore the stares of corporate zombies. They feed off each other’s company and jealousy, forgetting that they once knew how to live. They watch me almost fearfully because somewhere in their sub-conscious, they know I am not one of them. I wil never be.
         I close myself away from them as I push my legs forward, determined to continue. Every step I take seems to echo in my ears.
         My entire life has been a waste. It has been miserable and I have endured so much pain that I have almost grown numb to it, but not quite. I hate pain. It lingers on for what seems like forever and never goes away, never, not even with time.
         I get into an elevator and push the button for the top floor. As I feel the elevator moving me up, I close my eyes again to remember a painful memory of my early adolescence.
         I look out the back window of our car as we drive away from our house and into the darkness of night. I look at my mother again. The bruises on her arms already seemed fainter. “Are we really going to leave ? For good?” I ask.
         Mama nods slowly and tucks her hair behind her ear. The ring of black still looked painful. “For good, honey. Your father is never going to hurt either of us ever again.”  she answers solemnly.
         “You know what, Mama? I think that Daddy just hates the whole world and when you hate the world enough, the world has to hate back eventually.” I whisper, looking at my own reflection in the rearview mirror. The marks on my forehead and around my neck were even darker than Mama’s black eye.
         She looks over at me and smiles as through she's happy and not faking it anymore.
         Now, so many years later, I've come to realize that I hate the world as well. It's not my fault though. The world started it.
         The elevator doors open and I walk out, already knowing exactly where to go.
         My love is gone.
         My mother is gone.
         My father was gone before he even knew it.
         What else is there left for me here anyway?
         I find the short staircase. I climb up to the door and push it open. The cold wind claws through me. I breathe slowly in and out as I place my hand over my heart where I had hidden the very beautiful suicide note I had written only last morning. Now, as I walk on the roof and go to the edge, I see the colorless world from above. I climb over the rails of the balcony, my feet on the ledge and my hands tight on the rails. I feel the blood pulsing faster through my veins, my adrenaline flowing. I walk up to the balcony and see everything, yet nothing much at the same time.
         At that moment, I remember my earliest memory. It is blurry, but still there, warm and soft around the edges.
         I dance around and pretend. My room is a palace. My pink socks are ballerina shoes. My dress that is torn and fits me too small is a tutu. Mama isn't screaming for Daddy to stop hitting her in the other room; she's singing me a song to dance to and Daddy is playing the piano. I sing along, "Maybe one day, if I dance enough I'll fly...Maybe I'll fly so high I won't even try...to come back down again." I close my eyes and twirl around and around.
         "Maybe I'll fly so high, it won't hurt when I die." I whisper, remembering the last line in the song as tears stream down my face.
         A voice in the back of my mind begs me to keep living. But it is so quiet and the rest of me is screaming out in hostility and rage. I shake my head and my voice cracks as I say, "I need to go. I can't do this anymore. I can't." 
         I fall, the wind striking me hatefully until, in what seems like too long a time, I die instantly as I crush against the gravel, feeling earth at last.
         I was the kind of girl who could see the world clearly, but was colorblind. A life of darkness and hate led to a death of color.
         At last, a peaceful color. I welcome it with tears of comfort.