Immediately after a death, it’s all red. A splatter of red in your eyes, clouding your vision and it stings. You can’t cry it out. It’s red that drips down the walls in every room, a bright reminder that someone is always going to be missing. It’s red and it’s slippery, a thick coat on the floor and I can’t stop sliding and landing on the ground; I have nothing to hold onto. Words of sympathy feel like salt in a wound, and blood is really just red tears.
It stopped feeling this way a few months after the death. The pain doesn’t go away, of course, you just get used to it. And it doesn’t feel like red anymore. Everything is black and white now. He is gone and he’s never coming back, I know this. I don’t cry for hours anymore. My life is moving on with or without me.
So it’s black and white now. It’s not as colourful and vivid as it used to be, but I can still see enough to keep going. Things that I used to love, like fresh flowers or oranges that fill a room with its citrus scent don’t stand out to me now, but I can live without them.
Yes, I’m quiet. If I had a dollar for every person who has told me that I’ve changed, then I might be happy. Just kidding. The best part about things getting bad is looking forward to when they get better.
I may not love my life, but at least I have one.