I stared at the large mirror that dominated the whole left side of my small bedroom. It's supposed to give off the feeling that there is more space in the room. I looked at my reflection intently, then glanced at the kunai I gripped tightly in my hand, and looked back at the mirror. My hair has gotten so long. I don't remember it being this long. I felt it in my hands.

So smooth and silky. How long have I kept my hair so feminine? I'm sure for a very long time. I look at my clothing, pale beige and monotone. How long have I dressed like this? I don't remember ever deciding that this is the way I wanted to dress. And my face… I look so mature; I look so blank and boring. I don't remember growing up, I don't remember becoming boring! I used to be fun, and giggly, and I used to acknowledge when something was cute, or something was icky, or if my tummy hurt.

I never used to be so power hungry. I never used to be so… unlike myself. When did I become this?

I looked at the reflection of the kunai, inside of it were an infinite number of little worlds, different reflections due to the kunai reflecting the mirror and the mirror reflecting the kunai. I used to think about stuff like this all the time, but now I don't have time too. This kunai, it's what keeps me linked with who I truly am. I can still be myself, curious, insightful.

I untied my hair, letting it loose, and I slowly unwrapped my bandages, the ones that covered my right arm. I leaned my back against the mirror, feeling the chilled glass even through the thick cloth of my jacket. The kunai would be chilled too. It's monotone colored blade with meet with my bright red blood, with a metaphorically beautiful clash of chilled metal and warm blood.

My eyes were monotone as well. My clothing. My weapons. My fighting tactics. My life, comparatively anyways. My clan. But my blood flows red.

And I needed the reassurance that I wasn't dead. That I wasn't all shades of gray and beige and… icky. There was color in my life. With the blue color of my forehead protector –my proof that my life wasn't as monotone as my appearance – and the red color of my blood. I am not all gray! I am not all boring! My voice is monotone! My appearance is monotone. I am such a pretty little boy, I shouldn't be so pretty. That makes me gray! Like another indecisive things about myself. I don't want to be gray!

I had to see that I still bled. Needed to escape the gray. I look at my arm. So many scars ran across it. But I would add more. At an angle I pressed the tip of the blade to my skin and cut down. And again. And again until it bled. I smiled. Red covered my arm. A beautiful bright red. And it came from me. It was my bright color. I took a wash cloth and washed most of the moist red liquid off my arm. A little bit more bled from the scar, but I had already put the rag away. I licked the blood away, biting down on the flesh of my utterly pale arm, until it left red marks.

And then I rewrapped the bindings, and tied my hair up again, placing my kunai back in my holster at my leg. I had enough proof today that I was not gray. That even though my life is gray, and my eyes, and persona, I am not a drone- a robot, emotionless. I have emotions, and I bleed. As long as I knew that, no one else would have to. They wouldn't now me. They wouldn't ever know me. They'd be way too surprised.

I met up with the people who I suppose I should call my friends. They greeted me cheerfully.

And even though it was against my best judgment, as it was everyday I doubted the fact that I was monotone, in my most monotonous voice I answered the same way I always did, with a small "Hn", which had no emotional value behind it. Because as much as I tried to deny it, I am gray.