Finding Color

In lieu of recent events, I'm often asked how I'm doing, or how I'm holding up. In other words, I'm asked to tell someone exactly what I'm feeling right then and there. Of course, to respond with anything other than, "Fine, thanks." would probably result in both parties being uncomfortable, so I'm never forced to think aloud, but the thoughts linger in my mind like a foul aftertaste. What exactly am I feeling?

I wouldn't let it fall under the umbrella of depression. To me, depression is the cookie-cutter term used in my university psychology textbooks, a condition that's often described as, in poetic terms, a person seeing the world in black and white. That's not me. I'm sad--or maybe I'm bored, or numb, or tired, or sick. Because, though I would much prefer to see the world in black and white, I, instead, see the world through a smoke screen. The once bright and exciting colors of my childhood have faded so gradually that I hardly remember what they looked like before I became whatever I am now. I don't know what to do about it. I don't even want to try. Yet, now that someone will ask me--and will sincerely want to know--how I'm doing, I'll probably respond in the same way I always do.

Even though the only thing on my mind is what happened on Saturday night.


The car jolts to a stop as Kit parks, breaking my train of thought. Along with being a native New Yorker, the old Volvo's breaks are ragged and in need of repair, which makes Kit's driving nauseating even on a normal day. Today, my stomach churns at the thought of leaving the car, and I chew on my chapped lower lip as she turns off the ignition and turns to look at me expectantly. After a few minutes of me avoiding eye contact, her mousy voice breaks the silence. "You're making your lip bleed." As the words leave her mouth, I taste the metallic flavor of my blood and release my throbbing lip from my teeth. After a few more moments of silence, she says, "You have to go in."

"No."

Kit sighs and falls back against her worn car seat. As she closes her eyes, she runs a hand through her carefully styled, ginger curls. "It's this or therapy." She doesn't sound assertive as she normally would when I'm being difficult. There's a certain tiredness to her voice, a certain sadness that wasn't there before the events of this past weekend. The familiar gut-wrenching feelings of guilt over her lethargy add to the sensation of color draining from my face. As she sees this, she places her hand over my shivering one, empathizing, "I get that you're scared, Lilah, but you've got to do this."

"Why? So you can turn me into something I'm not? That's not my job."

Kit's removes her hand, and her voice shakes with an emotion I can't identify as she struggles to retain her tears, "I like who you are, Lilah." My anger transforms into regret over my words as she chokes, "It's just that I want you to get better, because you do stupid things sometimes, and I don't--I don't know why--!" As she tries to calm herself, a few tears escape from her eyes and she covers her sniffling nose with her hand. After a few awkward seconds, she sobs, "Please go. Please."

I can't help but feel my own throat closing at the tone of her words, but I refuse to allow myself to cry because of this. Instead, I disguise my feelings as anger and snarl, "Fine," as I
exit the car, slamming the door on my way out. As I stride towards the community center, bundling my coat tighter around me, I don't look back for fear of breaking my facade. I open the heavy glass door and let myself into the warmth of the building.


The interior of the center is only slightly less bland than the outside, the brown and white color scheme halfheartedly dressed up by fake foliage. The elderly woman behind the information desk peers at me inquisitively, smiling warmly in an attempt to welcome me in. In response, I give her a false smile in return and take out the pamphlet the doctor gave me at the hospital, looking over it in an attempt to stall what was lying ahead. I'd already memorized every word on the page, having repeatedly scanned the information in paranoia, but if I'm going to do this, I'm going in kicking and screaming. Then, I hear the desk-woman speak, "Are you here for the support group, miss?"

My breath catches in my throat as I lower the pamphlet from in front of my face. "I, um... yeah," I finish lamely. So much for going in kicking and screaming.

"I thought so; I recognized your pamphlet." Instead of the unknowingly condescending tone of sympathy that I expect, she sounds prideful of, possibly, her observational skills. The new attitude in the midst of all my expectations lifts the corners of my mouth into a smile, genuine this time, and I feel a sudden pang of respect for the desk-woman. She nods towards a dimly lit corridor to her left, "It's just down that hall there. Number twenty-three."

"Thanks," I mumble, the anxiety returning. As I reach the door, my hand lingers for a moment on the handle.

This is going to be awful.


Before I can open the door, it's pulled out of my grasp from the inside.

Notes

Hey guys! This is my very first story on this site. I know it's started out relatively slow, but things should already be picking up in the next chapter, which I'll try to write and upload by tomorrow sometime. As per usual, rates and comments are always encouraging!

--Sparrow Delanuit