twenty-seven days of white
-white-
White is the color of the crisp hospital sheets.
White is the color of her skin, once dark,
White is the color of her lies, although to me…
…they seem black.
-I'll be fine-
-I'm warm, I'm fine, I'll live-
White is the color of the nurses' faces.
They aren't individuals, they are blanks, copies of one another.
White was the color of her boots in the rain.
Click -clack, click- clack, click- clack.
Splashing in puddles and mud, color them brown.
Red is her smile. Yellow is her herself.
Yellow is also the sun.
The monster is a deep, dark, relentless black.
White is the color of tears.
They may seem silver, but they are white.
- Don't cry for me-
- You don't drink enough water anyway-
White is also the color of her lips.
Her boots, which she never wears anymore, are still brown.
The monster and I both know it will be some time before they are white again.
Yellow and orange and red is the sunrise.
She smiles at me. I hold her hand.
We get through another white day.
The outlook is relentlessly white, like the crisp sheets.
The days stretch lazily ahead of us, yet it is not a good lazy. It is a white, endless lazy.
We get through another day.
We do.
Not the next, though.
-Am I dead yet?-
White is the cold of the room. Blue is me.
White has swallowed her as well.
Sunken cheeks, yellow cheeks, gaunt face.
The monster has done its work quite thoroughly.
White is the color of her head.
No long brown hair left.
The hospital smells get to me.
I flush green down the toilet.
She is better this day.
- I won't die. Just stay here-
-stay here, stay here-
-stay here with me-
Pink, blue, yellow, green.
The colors of one million scarves.
A symbolic thing, a fashion thing.
Red, pink, white, cracked, dry.
The progressive colors of her smile.
The same smile.
There, there, not.
It gets bad, and then it gets worse.
The monster devours and feeds off of her kindness.
I ask it-
- What are you? -
- What are you after? -
- Why are you here? -
And no answers are received.
The monster merely starts to eat away at her mental state a little more.
They take her away.
They say she'll get better.
They say she'll come home.
I can't take it anymore.
I sit down,
I stare at the wall,
and finally, after twenty-seven days of holding it in,
I scream.
a/n: outpour of feels. Fics are going nowhere, nanowrimo is being a bitch, and it's the anniversary of my cousin's death.
Told from Silver's pov, about Blue.