His eyelids crack open, hoping to see something-a sliver a sunlight maybe-anything other than his dreary grey apartment. As per usual there is nothing there but the blacks and whites and everything in betweens of his temporary "home".
He is a technicolor man trying to survive in a black and white world.
He forces himself out of bed. His movements are like those of a child's, maybe from his knee brace, or maybe from the trauma of his past life. He barely glances at his reflection. What's the point in caring about how he looks when the government doesn't care about him? There are no restrictions in how he dresses or grooms. There are no strict rules on religion. There's nothing wrong or repressive about this place and yet he detests it with every living, breathing fiber of his soul.
He walks over to his record player; something that was never really allowed in Iran, and moves a shaky hand over to his collection. He selects one at random and places it on the player.
A lighthearted melody filters through the stale sound in the air; the silence giving way to explosions of colors. Bright yellows and oranges dance their way through seas of pinks and reds and greens and purples. And there he stands in the middle of it all; he is blue.
He barely makes it to the second verse before he scoffs and turns it off. Because just like when he wakes up in the mornings, there's no light able to filter it's way through his shattered heart.
YOU ARE READING
heroin
Short Storythe drugs are turning his brain to mush and he can't wait to die copyright © sxrcastic 2016
