A/N: So I recently started reading 'Grey Is…'. It's available for free reading on its own site (just search for greyismanga . com.
The series is about 2 extremely close friends, who share a profound bond through a great darkness. One character is highly emotional and self destructive; his current personality and mind-set are at fault with his past. The other character is seemingly void of emotions, only expressing them for his long time childhood friend, as he sees himself as the one who will help his friend survive whatever is causing him such pain, even though he himself is dealing with his own depression.
It's a very beautiful series that deals with abuse, self-harm, depression, and strong bonds. I'm trying to keep it as spoiler free as possible here in case you decide to hold this off and read the series before continuing.
If you plan to read this before giving the manga a go, here's a bit of character intro:
- Black:
22 years of age. White layered bobbed hair and silver eyes. Short. Designs clothing, though he's not fond of it. Abused for the majority of his youth. Has the tendency to repress and forget painful memories. Tends to dress in light colours. Has self-destructive habits and uncontrollable rage. Doesn't want to grow-up.
- White:
22 years of age. Short rather dishevelled black hair and dark eyes. Tall. Aspiring writer, most likely due to his own father being a children's book writer, but often lacks inspiration or motivation to write. Was raised by his dad after his mum left. Befriended Black after meeting on a rooftop that Black was going to jump from (around 9yrs old?). Made a vow to protect Black through the abuse, and currently dedicates his time to help Black through his self-destruction. Is rather introverted and stoic, unable to understand how to express or feel certain emotions. Often dresses in dark clothing. Want to grow-up into a successful adult, with Black's happiness in tact. In fear, he leaves Black without a word, then reappears, forgotten, 2 years later.
- Ameer:
One of Black's closest friends. Black considered him to be his 'best friend', running in second place of White. Ameer was a rather blunt young man, who unlike White, saw that Black was in need of more professional help, and was more willing of telling Black the truth of all things should things get bad after White left. After receiving a call from Black, who was talking about suicide, Ameer kindly offered to come over and talk, promising that the two-hour drive would be of no trouble.
However, on his way to Black's residence, Ameer gets into a serious car accident, and ends up passing away. His death, and Black's lack of memory, forces Black into a state of depression that eventually evolves into self-harm (something most likely inspired by Yaldar-unbeknownst to him due to his lack of memory).
- Jandar:
A bodyguard of sorts, hired by Inad, to accompany the boys when they were on a tour with a band Black was designing clothing for. Tall giant of a man. Bald, though has a beard. A kind giant that looks like he can kill you by running into you.
- Inad:
A psychiatrist/therapist who's treated the majority of the character. Also friend of Black's eldest brother.
- Black's siblings and in-laws: Black has two elder sisters, one of which is pregnant and married. Her husband was also friends with Black's eldest brother.
- Yaldar:
Black's eldest brother, who has been a total shut-in for the majority of his life. Black, desiring a male figure in his family after their father had left, decided to approach the shunned recluse of his older brother. It is revealed throughout the story that Yaldar suffers through major depression, and highly repressed anger undoubtedly built from his jealousy and loss. However, through silence, he plays the role of the older sibling for a time, until he snaps and not only abuses Black, but also self-harms. His depression eventually leads to an attempt, though he doesn't express total remorse for having abused Black from an early age.
- Hawk-Man:
In order for Black's mind to make sense of certain things, it created a figure in place of his thoughts stemmed from memory repression. This human-like creature has the head, hands and feet of a hawk. He is the dark voice/thoughts that influence Black's self-harm, often times "cutting" Black with its talons, creating the illusion that he's not harming himself willingly.
Remember…
We often walk through life with an utterly unexplainable feeling of dread. We wonder what will happen later in the day, or tomorrow, next week, and years from now. With heavy hearts, skipping with anticipation and dread, we question whether our current motives will promise us a future we will comfortably live in, or if it'll give us nothing but pain, desperation.
Our teeth grind against each other, our hands clutch at our shirts, over our chests, over our hearts, as we feel the claws sliver against our conscious, reminding us of our greatest flaws, which might be what hinders our success.
Most push through, and in their ten years of working past all of their trauma, reach a comfortable and happy life, fixed with everything they could ever have dreamed of, or things they never even considered important.
But others, unfortunately, meet with a completely opposite result.
The machines around me are like proof; the evidence to support my argument when I try to tell others that happiness is not guaranteed for those who escape their tragedies.
In the past, I would often wonder why I would even consider such things, because surely, running towards better things meant, no, ensured a better life with great opportunities. However, in these twelve years, I've learned that dreams aren't always meant to be taken as some goal, but as an idea.
Our dreams have always been in contrast with each other, like his name, and my own. My need to grow up, to be an adult, starting at twelve years of age with a cup of bitter coffee, while his were simply to never escape being a child- to thrive on avoiding mental aging, to never become his father or my mother.
This insistent beeping, monitoring his every human essence is distracting, and is giving me a headache. The rhythm isn't only a sobering reminder of what I walked into, but of what I can't keep away: his inevitable short-lived end.
He is like his brother, just as I am nothing like my parents.
The abuse he suffered through, because he felt as if though it was to protect those he cherished, loved, has molded something in him that can't be unshaped and rebuilt. It's overwhelmed him, caused his mind to break, created barriers and manners of self-preservation (the forgetfulness, the childishness, the anger and rage, the-…), forcing him into a whirlwind of uncontrollable emotions that I honestly thought I could handle, tame.
My hands are shaking, the ink is splotching, smearing, and for some reason I'm paranoid that the side of my hand will rest atop the note on my lap, staining it with black.
I must have unfolded and folded that note a dozen times already… I don't even remember when I set it aside; having been so afraid to even let it go. The sheet is not only creased from the folding, but from having been balled up and tossed aside, as if it was a piece of trash, another fragment of memory at the far back of his mind- unimportant, something to be dealt with later.
It's also dotted and lined with red, brown, dark maroon. Blood.
His blood.
Black's blood.
I'm at his bedside, and am wondering if I should even be here at all. After his near ten years of abuse, finding our lives through escape, then watching it all fall apart as Black neglected himself, as the reality of his former life set in and began to break him. I was there, like some silent vigil, tolerating his willingness to wither away into nothing by slowly killing himself. Because I had made a promise, as a child, to always be there for him, to protect him, to fix him, to make him, his life, 'good'.
And then I walked out, because I was angry, and afraid, and wanting. I was angry that he would allow himself to starve, to sleep life away, to do nothing but live in the darkness of his memory, with the physical and mental scars of his abuse. I was afraid because I didn't want to wake to a corpse, to find him lying still the next day because his body couldn't survive from all the neglect. I was wanting a life as an adult, a writer with a beautiful wife and happy children.
At twenty years of age, after forcing him to leave his abusive home life, and helping him through the worst, just as the storm clouds were starting to clear away, I left.
And Black, ever so kind, innocent, and broken, didn't bother to search. Instead, he closed himself off, depended on his other, now dead friend, Ameer to hold him up when it got bad, and eventually he forgot me.
His memories of me didn't disappear or evaporate, but instead were closed off; tucked away within Black's mental Pandora's Box where other bad things resided- things that would have already destroyed any other person.
The fact that Black wasn't destroyed is what I depended on. Because I knew he wasn't weak, I left.
He would forget me, he would depend on Ameer, and he would move on to be a successful person.
And he was almost there, so very close. I was a memory, he was an artist (clothing designer), living on his own, surviving every day doing something I assumed he enjoyed with an adult like quality. But then his mother was diagnosed with cancer, and the only anchor in his life died.
When I was away, Ameer was kind enough to report any incidents over the phone, because they rarely if ever occurred in person with them (not since Ameer questioned Black's broken fingers). I was aware of the good things occurring in Black's life, as I was also painfully aware of the bad.
However, when I was told of their talks about suicide, of the fits of rage, I did nothing. I stayed back, as I promised myself, because his destruction was also holding me back from becoming an adult.
Returning was never something I doubted was going to happen. His complete lack of memory of me wasn't entirely surprising. The self-harm was, because I didn't understand it. When his elder sibling harmed himself after harming Black, it was to replace the abuse- a trade if you will, 'I bruised you here, so I will harm myself here as well.' But what trade was being performed here? Why was Black slicing into his own skin with such dedication?
So many scars had piled over old ones, and they were all self-inflicted, whether from fights, bouts of rage (breaking things), or from a sharp object.
And then I found out, as he explained it to me while having a manic episode in the hotel room with a razor blade, begging me to walk out and let him continue cutting himself. The new wounds were there to replace the old, and to mark his body in place of the abuse he was no longer experiencing.
The very thought that he would no longer have abusive marks speckled about his flesh frightened him, made him feel unwholesome. So he found a substitute.
Because he repressed memories so well, he had managed to forget about his older brother, the one responsible for all of this. Black had no clue that he was doing the same thing as Yaldar, or what it had eventually led to.
And when that memory finally returned- when the voices and figure in Black's head in the form of a man with Hawk-like features became crystal clear, revealing his eldest sibling, he broke.
The years of abuse, of being told he was worthless, unwanted, unloved, better off battered, neglected, dead, tying in with his mum's cancer, Ameer's death, my leaving him without a word for two years, it was too much too quick, and he snapped.
I was there the day he remembered his brother, watching him go stiff still, suddenly quiet, like stone, for a few seemingly long seconds. I was in the room, when Black spoke his name, his eyes going dull, breathing shallow, as everything connected. I was able to reach him in time when he froze up and fell over from wherever he was within his mind, muttering in a shaky voice about how it was too dark to see, wondering where I was, and talk of drowning.
And all seemed fine. We briefly talked about it, because we decided that it was best he stay in better spirits when visiting his pregnant sister before leaving town.
We went to his sisters, had a successful high-spirited meal, spoke about the tour and Black's career (and growing popularity because of it), and left with laughter.
The car ride with Jandar was lively, Black's smile so genuine that his dimples were showing even with the day fleeting and casting shadows around us.
We walked into our hotel room, and Black, with his ever insistent child like behavior, practically bounced around the suite's living room area, rambling on about the baby, his sisters, the food, his manager, school, and I smiled through it all, keeping my silence if only to hear him babble about so many things with a smile.
I, having a fever, decided to sit on the couch, as he prepared a glass of cold water in the kitchen, which I assumed was for himself until he walked up to me and motioned that I drink it. With a sigh he had decided to sit on the couch as well, staring up with what I assumed was inspiration silence, brows furrowed in thought.
Then, he suddenly announced that he needed to go to the bathroom, and I, having noticed nothing unusual, made no motion of acknowledgement as I drank the water.
He had practically bounced off the couch, climbing over the back as he raced to the bathroom, telling me he'd shortly return, and I decided to channel surf while battling some congestion.
My fever had made me rather dizzy, making time as irrelevant as the channels on the screen.
I had begun to drift off, and it wasn't until the (then empty) glass cup slipped from my hand, hitting the rug with an audible clink, that my bobbing head shot up.
I looked around, momentarily lost and confused, when I realized that the day had completely set.
The room was engulfed in the darkness of night, and the only light in the room came from the muted TV.
Noticing the time, I suddenly remembered Black telling me he'd return after going to the bathroom, but it was evident that I was complete alone.
With grogginess evident in my entire person, I stood with some difficulty off the couch, stretched, and continued to somewhat hobble in my illness towards the balcony, wondering if perhaps he didn't want to disturb my sleep, which he only does when showing sympathy.
Reaching the balcony, I realized that it was also empty. Just to make sure, I had taken a step out to check around the corner, which was visually blocked by the curtain. I was instead met by the sound of the wind, warmly blowing against me. The sensation was uncomfortable enough to make me slightly frown, and I stepped back in, closing the door while cupping my heated forehead.
I called out his name, my voice hoarse from sleep, and the dehydration caused by the congestion.
When I received no response, I figured that he was in his room, perhaps asleep after such a long day. However, when I opened the door, and was relieved to not run into the incident that happened earlier on our trip, Black wasn't in bed.
My lips were in the form of a lop-sided frown as my feverish brain tried to gather any reasons for his absence, hoping that he hadn't left and run off somewhere.
Deciding to check my room, and passing the hallway bathroom again, I was met with the same emptiness, and my bed was still made.
I called his name again, and once more, received nothing in response.
Sighing, hoping that he wasn't far if he had left, I pulled out my phone, searched for his name, and called his number.
The ringing and reach was delayed, the dial tone from my phone going off twice before Black's mobile received the call.
In the twelve years of knowing Black, the sensation of overwhelming dread occurred often, but never waned.
It's like an explosion that starts from ones gut, and blossoms behind the ribs, circling the chest before reaching the brain, filling it with a fuzzy sensation that puts everything at a tilt.
Fresh, every time.
The moment Black's phone began to ring from the hallway bathroom door, no light from under the doors frame, that feeling nearly brought me to my knees.
I acted, fast, dropping my phone and rushing to the bathroom's door, gripping the knob and twisting it.
But it wouldn't turn completely, budging in its locked state.
My lips pulled back over ground teeth, my brows had furrowed as I glared at the knob in my sweaty palms, and my hoarse voice yelled out his name over and over again.
'Black!, 'Open up!',
'Black!', 'Say something!',
'Black!', 'Why is the door locked?!',
'Black!', 'What did you do?!',
'What did you do?!',
'Please!', 'Please!', 'Please!',
'Black…'.
I wasn't aware of the growing bruise on my shoulder after having rammed it against the wooden frame for the entirety of my shouting. I didn't feel it as the door finally gave way, breaking the frame and dislodging the locked knob.
The ache that shot up my bruised arm didn't even reach my attention as I momentarily panicked within the small room, because my bare foot had slipped over sleek tiles and I had to catch myself on the counter.
Through my clenched teeth, I had hissed out in pain as my palm slammed into little sharp fragments.
I didn't care to assess anything, and instead turned somewhat to hit the switch…
He was lying very still.
Black was lying very still on his stomach.
A scene so familiar, yet always surreal.
It was unsettlingly quiet. The blood that pooled beneath him grew in eerie silence.
I had looked down to my feet, and realized that I had slipped in a small pool of it; a tiny puddle that trailed from the broken mirror, towards the sink, and finally to Black's limp body.
The ringing in my ears was deafening, so much so that I didn't realize my breathing was hitched, slow, loud, as if on the verge of a panic attack…
The discarded towel on top of the counter was the reason I hadn't heard the glass break, having been used to muffle the sound when Black destroyed it.
My eyes were wide, my entire body was shaking, my breathing was shallow, and everything had felt so surreal, like I was in a nightmare I couldn't wake from.
And then I acted, fast.
I nearly slipped when I reached his body, grabbing onto his shoulders, and easily turning him over.
His day clothes were soaked in his own blood, along with one side of his resting face. He didn't respond as he usually would; laughing it off, smiling as if though he had defeated someone. He remained at rest.
I reached over, the bathroom being small, and had pulled at the towel that remained on the counter, quickly wrapping it around the arm that was more ripped apart, still heavily spilling blood.
I didn't speak throughout the ordeal, focused on stemming the bleeding as much as I could, as I reached over for a towel that was folded under the sink, wrapping the other arm.
Searching with my eyes, I scanned the area for his phone, but upon not finding it, surmised that it was in one of his pockets.
With panicked haste, I fumbled around until finding it, only when I tried to use it, I found that I couldn't, the screen locked with a password I wasn't going to waste any time guessing.
Gritting my teeth, I realized I would have to go grab the cell phone I had abandoned in the hall, eyes fixed on Black's paling face and blue lips.
Uncharacteristically cursing aloud, I slammed my foot down against the blood-coated tiles as I raced out of the room, practically crawling as I did so, as I made it to the hall. I snatched the phone from the ground without so much of a glance before turning and racing back to Black's side.
I uselessly whispered to him as I gathered him into one of my shaking arms, soothing him with words of comfort and encouragement, unlocking my own mobile's screen.
I didn't realize I had been crying until I tried to speak clearly into the phone, calling for an ambulance, explaining to them, as calmly as I could, that my one and only true friend, the one I've spent the majority of my life with, was dying because he had tried to kill himself.
They gave me instructions I had already performed, having practiced long ago, because I was always afraid that this day would come.
And then, after setting the phone aside, I waited, rocking him within my arms, looking at his paling rested face, watching as his lips became a darker hue of blue as time passed, furiously blinking away as my tears blurred my vision, biting my bottom lip when I realized that I could do nothing else but wait, wait, WAIT.
I would periodically check his pulse, noting how thready it was, praying that it would remain at such a hazardous pace, because I knew that it could only go still from there, stop completely.
In those ten minutes, I didn't speak ill of Black. I didn't insult him, or call him names. Instead I would speak of random events in our adolescence, incidents that would make us laugh even to this day.
I didn't plea that he stay with me, because I was afraid that if I did, he would slip away in my arms.
When help finally arrived in the form of a crowd of paramedics and a hotel maid with a keycard access to all rooms, I felt like I myself was going to pass out.
The overwhelming relief was not enough to easily pry him out of my arms, or block him out of view as they picked Black up and lay him in the living room, preparing him to rest on the lowered gurney; the cots metals legs folded beneath the cot.
One of the paramedics had to hold me back with their hand to my chest as they further secured his wounds, until she had to leave to help her partner lift Black up and rest him onto the thin mat.
I dutifully followed as they rolled him out of the room. I silently crowded the elevator as they spoke loudly about Black's condition. Unannounced and uninvited, I loyally climbed into the back of the ambulance to sit next to him, and across from one the paramedics who worked on the arm that had the worst of cuts.
I nearly collapsed as they led him away, past the automatic key-card-only double doors that led to the OR's, watching as they rushed in a flurry to keep Black stable.
They nearly lost him.
The first words of news they gave me, Jandar, and Inad was that they nearly lost Black in the OR, having had lost so much blood.
My wide eyes finally settled when they said that they managed to stabilize him, and my heart fluttered in anguish yet serenity when they mentioned the fact that they had to put Black in a medically induced coma to help in the recovery.
Afterwards, no amount of coffee could help the headache that was making me extremely nauseas. No words of comfort could reach me. No doctor or nurse could argue with me as visiting hours became family-only, as I stayed in Black's room at his side.
As the next day came, and Black was still not ready to be woken, I decided that I needed to shower, and replace my blood stained clothes. Black's eldest sister was kind enough to demand I go to her home, rather than the blood stained hotel room. Her husband was gratuitous enough to pick up my clothes ('The black ones right?' with a smile), accompanied with Inad, both of which I told wasn't necessary, but they reminded me that this wasn't the first time they would witness the aftermath of a suicide attempt- and in that moment my heart clenched because I was reminded of Yaldar.
Within a haze that I couldn't break free from, I showered for what seemed like hours underneath warm water, lightly acknowledging the piled clothing on the bathroom floor, stained with Black's blood, dry and flaking. It wasn't until I was changing into a set of clean clothes that I noticed the balled up note in one of the pockets, and I faintly remembered having picked it up to read later.
I returned, washed of all evidence of the incident that happened in that tiny bathroom, notebook in hand with a pen shoved into it's spine, note flattened under the cover.
Not wanting to make an incident around staring eyes, I decided to read it within Black's hospital room, needing to be close to him in case panic fluttered once more and the urgency to be beside him mercilessly rose.
With tired eyes, my cheeks still burning with a fading fever, I opened my notebook and began to read the note.
Black's suicide note.
I had pushed down any emotion, afraid that if I let any slip in at the moment of first reading it, I'd lose it- whatever was currently left of my sanity.
It read…
'White,
I promised you that I would go to you if I ever felt the need to do something like this again- if it became too much. Today I remembered him, who Hawk-man really is. Today I realized why I would blackout or have complete mental breakdowns sporadically over a memory I couldn't find. Over the years, you've taught me how to overcome my past, and I lied to you by forcing myself to forget them rather than fight it…
Hey, White, remember that one time-'
So like Black, to change the subject, the depth of a situation, with his childish demeanour…
'Hey, White, remember that one time you let me play with one of your favorite action figures, and I accidently broke off one of his arms? I thought you'd hit me… But you didn't…
Or hey, remember the time I took one of your books without telling you, one of the ones you were reading at the time, and I lost it somehow? You found out because I got nervous when you asked me if I'd seen it, and so I had to confess. I thought you'd hate me for taking it, for losing it… But you didn't…
Remember the day you found out about Yaldar abusing me? You told me to make him stop, to tell someone, to get help. I begged you to leave it as it was, to not go to an adult, because I was doing this for Yaldar's benefit. I thought you were going to call me stupid, or stop being my friend… But you didn't…
Hey White…
Remember the time you left me without saying anything?-'
I stopped reading, because I remember having to take in a long shaky breath, anxious of what would follow. I had to fold the paper just to gather myself as I had covered my face, fear eating at me.
I remember sitting like that for nearly five minutes before building the courage I needed to read what could have been his final thoughts.
'Remember the time you left me without saying anything? For two whole years, through hell and misery, you had disappeared from my life, and my memory. You came back as if you were gone for the weekend. In regards to that, I need you to know something…
White, I really need you to know something…
There were plenty of things, of wrongs, I had done with you in my life. Many times I'd hurt you, ignored you. I've caused you pain, took advantage of your kindness. Without consideration, like my brother did to me, I abused you by causing you so much grief. After you found me in the hotel room and explained why you were so angry with me, I realized that in order to keep myself from hurting you I had to stop hurting myself. But White, I couldn't. I can't. For years, I'd tolerated my brothers abuse, and for all the good you've done, and all the kindness in your heart, I can't put you through the same.
You've done so much to try to keep me happy. You've proved that no matter how nasty or childish I got, you'd still love me.
There are so many things I want to tell you White. The confession as to why I self harm, there's more to it. I know you know that, and you want so many answers. I want answers too, as to why you left, and why you can't seem to tell me. But I've accepted that you keep your painful secrets close to heart, and closed off, like I do.
The connection we share is strong; I see that now with each passing day.
Remember that dream you had, of growing up and leading a happy life? Because of me, you can't.
There are so many things I wish I could see besides this overwhelming pain, this sensation of drowning, this blanket of darkness. But I can't.
White, there are so many things I want to tell you, but I'm afraid. Even after witnessing my lowest of moments, I'm still afraid that you'll walk away again if I tell you everything that I'm feeling, or reasons as to why I do the things I do…
But I didn't.'
…
And that's where it ended.
No goodbyes, no formal ending, just a period that followed the last words in what seemed like a long ramble of jumbled thoughts.
He had planned to leave me with questions, and no hope for an answer.
Unlike me, Black doesn't often write. He doesn't keep a journal of his thoughts.
If he had succeeded in his suicide attempt, whatever secrets he kept extremely close and hidden, would have been locked within his hollow corpse.
I had cried after reading the note, as I expected I would. I sobbed like the humanities existence depended on it, while gently gripping on one of his bandaged arms, as my other hand cupped my face as if to keep the tears from soaking my lap, hidden from the world.
Having not realized I had dozed off in such a state, I woke with my chin propped on a tear-stained mattress, my unfocused eyes fixed on his serene face.
Sitting upright, notebook on my lap... After moments of staring at his sleeping frame in silence, my hands working as they folded and unfolded Black's note, I decided that I needed to write.
We had made a deal, when we were younger, to work on a book that dealt with abuse. I would write, and Black would illistrate. We would use what we are good at to create something that held meaning.
I had rested the note on my lap as I began to write, glancing at it to motivate me to finish this.
You see Black, you might be wondering why I'm openly writing all of this without using third person or alias names.
But that's because this isn't for our book, or for anyone else. In fact, this is my note, to you.
Not a suicide note, but a note to give you an idea of what goes on in my mind- the one you say it closed off too often.
You're right; it is full of concern and worry. I'm constantly afraid that I'll wake up to you not there, or having forgotten me again when it all becomes too much.
For twelve years, I have known you through the best and worst. I have helped you as you have helped me live. You were the life that woke me from my slumber. Living in a daze for years after my mother left me, after she told my dad that she didn't want me, being afraid of pushing anyone else away- you were the only one who stayed.
You are the only person on this earth, in this universe, that could make me truly feel anything.
The night I found you in that tiny bathroom, I felt as if though my very soul had left me. For a moment, I truly thought that if you had died, and for a fleeting second, a single idea ran through my head. In a moment of panic and despair, I considered dying in that room with you.
You think you're abusing me, but you're not. This pain you inflict on yourself does hurt me, but I acknowledge that you do it because you're in so much pain, some of which I contributed. So despite what you want, or think, I will push through my pain, to help ease yours. Because I know that yours is so much greater than mine.
This bond is purely out of my love for you, and I hope you understand the weight in that single four letter word.
It's not in the romantic sense, and we aren't blood related, but our relationship holds such a strong connection, that it can never truly be severed.
Please, Black, don't sever it…
I apologize for leaving you, and I say that often, but I never tell you why…
You're waking up now, three days later from a medically induced coma.
I'm watching you blink away your confusion as one of the nurses helps you back into consciousness, removing the tube that's been breathing for you. I would laugh at how awful you look.
I'll give you this note when you're more aware, and you'll read it.
Once you're finished, I'll finally tell you why I left two years ago, and afterwards I'll hope that you'll still want to be with me, I hope that you'll be able to genuinely forgive me.
And Black, if my confession is enough, I hope that you'll talk to me- genuinely talk to me.
Because I'm here to listen, and despite everything, I still love you more than anyone I know.
- White
A/N- I'm so utterly angry at myself for writing this in the first person. It's a genuine rule of mine: Don't write in the eyes of the character.
However, after reading Grey Is, I've noticed that Dee Juusun writes in the first person quite often in place of dialogue to help better explain the character. It's not just a bunch of thought bubbles, but first person accounts and thoughts. It's quite beautiful to be honest.
Really, the first page was going to be in the first person, and the rest as a 3rd person account. However, White is a writer, and as writers, we all know that we can't often express our thoughts verbally, but through pen and paper (or computer and keyboard).
What inspired this piece is not only due to me catching up (after 2 days), and the story currently on hiatus (dying of anticipation here), but because this is my manner of coping as well. I've had this urge to write something for this beautiful manga, and so I have for the past 5 hours after midnight despite having to get up early, because despite this being a piece from one character to the other (didn't write this with my mindset, used White's the entire time), I know there are people out there having it rough, or having to witness something close to this fic.
However, I think what makes me even sadder, is that the manga doesn't have a larger following. So please read the series! In addition, thank you so much for taking your time to read this (even if you had no idea who the characters are).
Also, Merrill Glass had a hand in inspiring some of Black's suicide note. I was inspired by her (much shorter) poem 'But you didn't.' Before I began typing, I didn't know what to go on, but then I stumbled about some SnK fan art that used the poem to formulate their own story/short comic strip, which then led to one about Free!, and thus, I decided that it was angst enough to use for an idea. But then things got out of hand, White (in my head) kept talking, and then Black finally jumped in with his note, and I had to tie it in- you get how this works with me, I never had a straight forward plot, ever.
Thank you for reading. Again, please read the manga: greyismanga . com .