Her hair flowed like a rivulet of orange juice, flowing down her shoulders in citrus cascades, but no drop would fall. Orange that reminded some of strawberries, for obvious reasons, or maybe not.
The strange orange that shone bright as the sun, blinding with its luster ("oh no!" she would cry when she thought about it); orange, like the lantern on the street corner near the bakery on a Tuesday night in autumn. Orange, like her favorite cup, next to the pink P-Tan cup, which she would fill with orange juice, and then the whole cycle would start all over again.
But now her hair is not orange.
It's gray, like the overcast sky in late December, when little children come to the window hoping for snow, their breath turning the glass white. Gray, like the dust that collects on the bottom of your socks when you walk outside with them still on. Gray, like something white getting darker and darker.
---
Her skin was bright pink, but not just pink; it was yellowish, too, shining like the sun, like the bright yellow pencil that sat on her desk just before she picked it up to scribble a small animal into her notebook.
Pink, like the wrapper of a Strawberry-Banana Starburst; pink, like the rim of the bag she always carried around with her, containing all her manga and other assorted things, such as an umbrella and some chocolates. Yellow, like a lemon; but lemons were sour, and she was sweet, like a tart, which was not yellow, but lemons were.
But now her skin is not pink or yellow.
It's gray, like a silver spoon that has been used over the years without getting shined, losing its luster. Gray, like the slush that sits on the ground in winter, the slush that hurts when someone throws it at you. Gray, like a white towel when you try to wipe away all your filth and dirt.
---
Her clothes were bright, acrylic colors, like the color wheel teachers always show you in art class; like a summer day in the pool, with everyone laughing in their swimsuits.
Acrylics, like an abstract painting of fantasy, so wonderful it leaks from the page; acrylics, like the patchwork bear she sowed after school one day when waiting for Tatsuki to get done with karate. Acrylics, like the paints used by the boy who sits on his balcony, looking at his canvas; but then again, those really were acrylics.
But now her clothes are not acrylic.
They're gray, like a light sketch drawn in an 11x14 sketchbook. Gray, like the blades of a fan that haven't been cleaned, dust clinging to them because the owner was too lazy to clean it. Gray, like an old woman's hair, only she wasn't old at all; but when she couldn't remember the time the clothes were white, she thought she was losing her memory, like an old lady, so maybe she was old.
---
Her eyes were brown, like Hershey's chocolate when she got past the logo and the foil and start eating the creamy candy; like the swirl of coffee in her Starbuck's cup.
Brown, like the wood that burns in the warm fire, casting a gentle smile across her face; brown, like the mud her shoe lost to in the battle against it (oh, but the mud had an ally!). Brown, like when all the paints fell together and mixed with each other, which she would promptly step in and slip, accidentally causing the descent of more paint.
But now her eyes are not brown.
They're gray. Even her hollow eye, which seems like it should be black, is really dark gray when you look at it. Gray, like the bottom of a CD in the store two blocks from her apartment, only her eyes only shine when she's crying. Gray, like the cold, hard machinery of a factory, pumping pollution into the air. Gray, like the thunderclouds that roll in late May, making rain that muddles her vision; but she likes it like that.
---
Her spirit was yellow-orange, like the Sunny D at the bottom of the container when you're finished; like the crackle of a lighter at 5 A.M., when the power's out.
Yellow-orange, like one of the gel pens she got at Christmas two years ago from Chizuru; yellow-orange, like the light from the dim fixture in the drug store, constantly flickering.
Yellow-orange, like when she mixed the orange soda and Mountain Dew and drank it, her tongue burning with sweet sugar.
But her spirit is not yellow-orange.
It's gray. Gray, like the storms that rush around it in a flurry, like a reckless tornado that tears all apart. Gray, like the color of Ichigo's hollow side when it decides to emerge and wreak havoc. Gray, like a combination of the black she believes her soul is, and the white of purity everyone else thinks it is.
Goddamned gray, like everything else about her.
End
A/N: Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story, especially not all the references to Sunny D and Mountain Dew.