Stained Life

When you’re in love with someone, everything looks colorful. Someone said that. I don’t know who, or maybe I did know and I’ve just forgotten. But nevertheless that doesn’t matter anymore because it’s not like I can see color anymore. I know the sidewalk is gray, and so are the thump thumping of my heavy footsteps against it, but the ever-so existing music that always plays from someone's apartment window—What color was that? And the stray dog sleeping in an alleyway, whimpering for food. Was it yellow? Or maybe purple.

Maybe there was a time where I could see the world in the fake splashes of color it gave off instead of the dark and monotone view I see it in now. But all that I once remembered about that life was sullied by tragedy after tragedy. Gets me questioning whether I should even keep going.

I remember my mom: her voice used to be the most beautiful shade of pink every time she spoke, whether it was towards me or someone she had just met. Her scent would be bright yellow and every time she would walk by I could feel her warmth pressing against my skin. I wish I remembered more of that, but now I only remember the crimson red of her screams, the tinges of the hue that would creep into my room late at night like blood flowing in clear water. The warmth radiating from her that I felt was replaced with the sight of dark bruises; she was stained with blood, and scented as such.

It felt like a shard of glass cutting my heart inside out every time I witnessed her in that state. It stains my memories and reeked my skin with blood like it’s trying to sympathize with her pain, and it hurts. It hurts so much. As each day passed, the screams became louder and tinges turned into splotches staining the air. The shard in my heart began to grow and finally it cracked. The red in my room burst furiously cued with a recognizable sharp shrill of distress. That was the last time I could ever see red.

My mind begins to wander back into what my tired eyes give, the dull twinkle of the street lights and apartment windows. But also a bright shade across the street, like it’s almost trying to contrast the quaint view surrounding it. It’s the deli, people shouting, laughing, and drinking. It’s their most boisterous hour after all the customers stop coming and the deli owners are left with only their thoughts.

It was green. That’s what it was. This was a memory I left in the back of my brain because it was something that was beaten down to the ground over and over again by my memories.

The sound of laughter was green, I remember the color and the action but I don’t think I could conceive of ever relating those two things together ever again. The happiness that came from laughter became corrupt from this cruel world. It was my dad’s corrupt laughter, whether or not he came back home drunk or with another woman or both. He was always laughing. There was so much green in the house on a daily basis, and when it stepped closer and closer to me, I would be ready to feel pain. Except I could never be ready. While everyone chuckled and giggled at every joke that was cracked in class, I’d flinch in pain. I guess my brain just decided to leave that color behind, because maybe if I had forgotten about it the pain would go away.

That leaves only blue; I think if I really try to see it I could. It was the color I would see when I felt grief, and I would also see blue when someone else was feeling it. A dark dull blue, not a pastel baby blue or picture perfect sky blue. It is a depressing color that makes you feel sleepy. Makes sense for my brain to connect blue to sadness, but how I lost the ability to see it is similar to how you stop noticing a bad smell after being around it for a long time. Everyday of my life for the past year the blue would be too strong to the point where I would prefer living with my eyes closed. But that’s not how my brain works. I’ll always be able to see that feeling whether or not I was closing my eyes.

The problem wasn’t my eyes, it was my brain. I learned at a young age that people don’t see and feel like I do. People say it’s a gift to be able to feel the world with my whole heart. What privilege they must have to be able to say that. They just say, “Just brighten up.” or “Don’t be sad.” Wow why didn’t I think of that?... It’s just the worst feeling in the world and it never gets any better. It destroyed me so much to the point where I felt like I would prefer living with my eyes gouged out.

Everything I see is blurry, everything I hear is muffled, everything I smell is suppressed. My brain and my heart agreed that they don’t want anything to do with this world, and that’s why I walked all this way, because I don’t want anything to do with this world.

A railroad in the middle of nowhere, that’s where I want to go. Seems fitting that it ends this way, because a train is a lot like life. For some people living is a blessed luxury—being able to experience the world comfortably with the warmth of family and friends. But life doesn’t stop for anyone; missed opportunities and missed chances suck, and sometimes you don’t even know when the next one will come. All you can do is wait. But life where I’m standing from, heads straight for me with no mercy and devastating brutality.

There it comes, cued with a powerful horn like it’s yelling at me to go away. But there’s nowhere else for me to go All I want to do is stand here and let it all end. It’s getting slower, but not only the train, everything around me is slowing down. This is where it all ends. This is how I want it to end. With one last color, the warm red embracing me one last time like an angel greeting me. Like my mom.