I woke up in a swirl of gray. It churned around me, tugging at my shirt, my slacks, my tie. I couldn't tell if my eyes were open.
I couldn't tell if I was even alive.
Before that moment, I had never considered the color gray at great lengths before. The tone of it, the nuance--none of that mattered. Gray was merely the space between black and white. A puff of smoke. A wisp of overcast sky.
In that moment, all I could think was that the gray looked like mist, but felt like ash between my fingers, fine and silky. My body was coated in it. The dust streamed from my mouth, from my eyes, from my ears. For a moment, it felt like there may have even been dust oozing from my skin.
All I could think was that I couldn't tell if I was dead.
They say that when you're dying, your life flashes before your eyes. I kept waiting for a soft picture to form before me, but my eyes could see only gray. Yet, the dust that surrounded pressed up against me like memories. The brush of a hand, the warm grasp of an embrace, a slap, a kiss.
Every moment of my life churning around me, tugging at my buttons, my slacks, my tie.
It was only when the dust settled that I realized I was neither alive nor dead, neither white nor black.
I was merely in the space between.
YOU ARE READING
Wish-Makers
ParanormalHenry Winsor was not a man who believed in wishes, until he met the men who made them. When Henry and his best friend, Myron, need them most, a pair of genies stumble into their lives, promising good fortune and a bright future--for a price. In one...
