Death
The sky was quiet and innocent on the warm September day, and the young being stared at the winds.
Oh yes, he could see winds; the glowing eyes on his mask allowed him to see quite a few things normal people couldn't. Spirits, the stars, emotions. It was a mind-blowing technology he wasn't sure he liked.
Anger was black, as opposed to the red everyone expected, and he hated to see it. It was like peering into the depths of the soul, or at least a dark room with your stomach churning; peace was a glorious green, with images of swirls around it; depression was red, dripping like paint. The colors of his mask responded in turn, and he had begun to worry they were starting to influence him.
But no matter. Seeing into the soul wasn't what he was concerned about right now. The Mansion was mostly a dull grey, wan and waxing like the moon. Sometimes a Smasher would dance by with a world of color plunging around them, brightening the gloomy landscape; Meta never noticed anymore. The sky was his only gaze.
The sky was blue. Blue blue blue. Indigo, cerulean, cornflower blue. It never changed. It hadn't ever, even though it could be lost behind grays and whites and yellows; even in the sunset it was blue. It always came back to him.
And all he wanted to do was lose himself in that blue.
People made the mistake all the time of his age. When asked and refused to answer, he'd gotten speculations of 35 to over 200. And he'd laughed at every one of them.
He was eighteen.
He liked to joke (to himself, of course) that he was middle-aged. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact he could essentially read into everybody's soul, and the soul is lot more truthful than the mind. Maybe it was that he could see things that were normally hidden.
And there's a reason those things are hidden.
But now he just wanted to soar in the great beyond, float on the winds that were a color he couldn't name. They whirled among the everlasting blue of the sky, and he longed to be there so badly.
If only…
His hope caught in his throat; his heart in his lungs; his head in his hands, he needed to jump. That blue. It was so cruel to him, so taunting and beautiful. So pure. Never changing. Endless.
How much (longer) would he live like this?
The lights in his mask began to glow a murky red, like blood in dirty water. But he couldn't see that.
And that was the problem.
He could see colors just fine, the spirits with their florescent pinks and various noises; what he couldn't see was his own emotions. And in times like this, when he was uncertain about his every feeling, it wasn't exactly helpful. It was why he stayed as far away from the Smashers as possible. He wasn't worried about offending them, exactly; most squealed when they heard his accent anyway, forget if he was insulting them or asking something. He was terrified of hurting them.
He lifted his head out of his small mitten-like hands, and the eyes of the mask were a gleaming gold. It was genuine fear, concern for his fellows; he liked them all, despite the occasional misunderstanding and his antisocial personality. They were (for the most part) a nice group of people.
But there was also a part of him that warned him otherwise. This was the part that the gold stemmed out of, blossoming like an enchanted tree, each branch a different possibility. He was high in that tree now, and he couldn't glide his way down any more than he could leap into the sky.
Because there was so much truth in the roots. That truth made up the trunk of the tree, as he clung desperately to it.
That truth. The terror. The truth that made it so terrible. The idea that maybe, if he lost control, he would be justified in killing them. It was such a real possibility he quaked in his boots. Often, too often, his eyes flared black and he destroyed everything in his rampage; true, the Smashers thought they had nothing to be scared of, because this was mostly during matches; but mostly. There had been one particular time…
But that was long ago.
As far as he knew, they had no idea about his little "gift". Very few had ever speculated that the changing lights might mean something other than Meta's head was a disco ball. And only one had actually matched the shifting colors to emotions, and unfortunately, he was in love with her. And he knew quite positively that she knew that.
He supposed it didn't matter much anyway. She was a human being, he was a puffball. She was older than him, anyway, could buy legal beer (by MH's standards; Meta had been drinking ever since he could remember in his home planet), as pointless as that seemed. But to him it widened the gap between their compatibility; the simple things she could do that he could not.
He got to his feet from where he was sitting (it was little more than a slide of his boots, and his head didn't bob), and his eyes transformed into a lavender butterfly, spiked with white. It was wistfulness he was feeling. And he knew it.
But at the thought of Samus his eyes went gold again. Ah, yes, he'd gotten wrapped up thinking about her. She was the one thing that could distract him from this terror, but not anymore.
No no no dammit no!
And he sprang off the roof he was standing on, not forgetting for an instant that he couldn't fly. He launched himself into the blue anyway, enjoying, for a moment, the feeling of weightlessness and plummeting; his eyes were a vivid orange. The next second, he fwiped open his wings, and glided gently on the indescribably colorful wind to the ground. His eyes were now that murky red again.
It wasn't that Meta wasn't in touch with his emotions. It was that they were faint. Dull. It was that whatever he saw around him affected him so much stronger. It was that he couldn't read his own, true emotions.
Only having a taste of the sky was so much worse than not having one at all. It was having the gold goblet and being denied the wine; it was the pinch of salt and rejected the meal. It reminded him a bit of the distorted way he was forced to view his own feelings; only a taste, indistinct and hazy.
Gold.
The emotions from the Smashers were so bright, so unforgettable. And yes, he loved them. He loved that they were all so brave, strong, and fun (though "fun" is used loosely). But some of those emotions weren't a good thing.
It hurt him to see a cloud of black swarming over little Kirby, one of the gentlest of them all; it was upsetting to see red hugged around Peach as she slunk in a quiet corner of the quiet Mansion with her quiet sobbing, and to see it was still red months after.
But it was mostly that orange jumping in pops around Luigi as he strangled Samus.
Meta had been on an unlucky streak that day, or so it seems in retrospect; he had lost his two matches, his place in the semi-finals, had an argument with MH and Link (who taunted his accent, he'd replied in turn that at least he could drink, earning a loud shout of restraint from MH), and scratched up Galaxia. He had just been wondering if it could go any worse when he accidentally stumbled across Luigi's red face in a wide smile, with Samus clutching at her throat.
It had been a weird thought, but it'd come to him anyway: she simply couldn't ever look un-beautiful, no matter what. His eyes always turned a pale blue when he saw her, and she had always smiled in return, like she knew a secret; he always compared that smile later to the Mona Lisa. Now, with her hair falling in ribbons around her face, her color was the most shocking gold he'd seen in a long time. And he couldn't bear it, no, of course not, not even if he hadn't loved her as much as he did.
His eyes went black.
It hadn't taken long to wrestle Luigi off of Samus, who retched in the corner, pretending she didn't have tears welling in her beautiful, frightened eyes; Luigi, in turn, had the strangest aura about him. Meta sampled it as he threw lightning fast strikes at him: gold, yes, but red and black were prominent there, the orange rapidly fading. Nothing equaling Meta's black. But something else was there, too, in the bottom of the mix: white. In retelling the story to Samus, he would call it the "silver-lining" because he knew he could feed on it. The only problem was that he wasn't sure what the white was.
In the months following that incident, Meta became something of a legend. In turn, he prolonged and kept his distance from the Mansion and the people inside of it, mostly trying to avoid Samus, and the blue that fixed in his mask when he saw her.
Because when he'd knocked Luigi unconscious, and rushed over to Samus, who lay collapsed on the floor, her face flushed, he'd seen a tint of yellow. Pale yellow, like a veiled dandelion.
It was a dash of hope.
But when her eyes, finally opening, had found his mask, he'd seen the yellow plunge to pale pink. Disappointment. Sadness. Then, meeting his eyes behind the lights, she'd seemed to realize it and the color was now deep, dark blue. Shame.
Then the awkwardness cleared, though it had been tangible seconds before, and she thanked him over and over.
But it didn't matter.
Meta didn't realize it, but he had caught on rather quickly: his eyes were dripping red. He knew it. His reflection didn't tell him anything; it never had. Perhaps the most worrying thing was the white in the back of his mind. It was clearer than any of his emotions had been over the past few months, and seemed to grow quietly beside the tree of gold.
Now, standing in the back of the Mansion, his wings still outstretched, he sees that the white flower is up to his level on the gold tree. Can he grab it? He can certainly feel it grabbing him.
He isn't naïve. He knows exactly how dangerous this white could be.
But he doesn't care.
Now, Meta takes out his sword. He wants to say a short goodbye, just in case this doesn't work; but there's no one to say farewell to. If he could, he'd kiss Samus on the forehead as she slept, like a passing ghost, the way he saw her parents do once. It doesn't matter.
He has to find out the meaning of this new emotion. And to do that, he will stab himself. You see, when he does, a burst of colors comes forth: confusion, anger, revenge, shame, sadness, hope. Hopefully white will be a part of that rainbow. He knows it's a long shot, but this is his surefire method; if you rule out A, you can rule out B. It was the way the alphabet worked; it is the way his colors work.
And if stabbing seems too extreme, you had to be extreme to find out what it was. The hurt would bring forth all sorts of colors. Extreme colors. And that is all he needs.
And he can heal himself, too. No worries there.
Glancing at the sky that so cruelly denied him again and again, he takes a deep breath. He doesn't know it, but white is shining from his mask. In his mind, the only color is a deep, jade green: preparation, concentration.
Then he thrusts the sword into himself, and his mind explodes in…one color.
White.
White?
Thinking it must be a mistake, or perhaps he's been ridden of his burden, he tries to yank the sword out. But his arm is limp.
What is this?
His feet collapse underneath him, and his wings frame his head as he drops to the ground.
And as colors begin to swirl in his eyesight – in front of his eyes, not his own feelings – he starts to realize something. And for the first time he hears music, instead of seeing it; it's soft and calming, and feels like a waterfall. It takes him back to the time he first saw Samus. How his eyes were the blue of the sky.
And white…
It is colorless. It is the sky after the leaves have fallen; it is a dead man's gaze; it is the lack of yellow, of gold, of blue. It is the loss of blue.
White is colorless, because death has no color.
A/n: So, this turned out better than I thought, considering I made it on the fly yesterday to console an anonymous reviewer that I was indeed following guidelines. Some people really got their panties in a bunch. Anyway. Hope this story wasn't too bad. (I feel like it is…too melodramatic, or something.)
Thanks for reviewing my other story, those who did! And thanks on here to: wait, wait, I'm keeping the replies short because I have a book to read. To: JSparks, Anyone (great to talk to you again!) MessengerofDreams, and Eggy. (hehehe) Thanks so much guys! I'm glad I managed to make it personal. I promise I'll give individual replies again after this chapter.
Thanks for reading, please review, and I hope you enjoyed!
~Araceli L
