Run Between

Black Star

                                                        Black.

We all come dressed in it, a color of mourning. Despite the fact that we did not know the man being sent both underground and to heaven, we have come to pay our respects and help Scarlette, who was closest to him.

We spot her silently sobbing next to the box that holds her father. She tries not to draw attention to herself, but is obviously suffering. This is only confirmed when Aidan, Steve and I make our way over to her, and she opens her arms to embrace us. While resting her head on my shoulder, she tries to say something but cannot; instead letting salty tears running down her face like a waterfall and a mouth gaping like a fish. Normally, Aidan would tease her for this, but even he is smart enough to know that now is not the time.

                                                          Black.

It is the color of the sky as Scarlette waves goodbye to her father one last time, and his casket is lowered into the ground. Steve, Aidan and I stand on the sidelines; a few tears strolling down Steve's cheeks (although Steve desperately tries to hide them) while Aidan looks pointedly at his feet as if they are the most interesting thing he has ever laid eyes on. As for me, I do not realize the tears until I touch my face to feel wetness. When I realize this, however, I am not surprised. It only adds to the pit in my stomach that I am sure I will fall into.

                                                                    Black.

A color of despair, of distress, of depression. The color that fills the crashes into a movie screen whenever something particularly surprising occurs.

I believe this has happened when I spot a journalist standing on the outskirts of the mourners; blending in with a black suit, but standing out like a drop of blood on snow because of his camera and manipulative face.

"Aidan, Muck," I whisper, hoping not to disrupt the ceremony, "We have to go." Pulling them through the crowd, I can only hope that the journalist doesn't spot us. No such luck.

The journalist has enough manner to wait until we are out of Scarlette's earshot before approaching us and demanding the answers to numerous questions, most centered on Aidan and I. Although we answer pithily and passively, I can't help but let my anger boil as the questions go on. Finally, I explode into a rant of whispers.

"Why are you talking to us? This isn't about us, this is about Scarlette, Mr. Cole, and his passing! You should be asking about him!" I then storm away, only for Aidan and Steve to follow me. I loose sight of the journalist, my mind focused on whether this will always be my life: learning about unimportant tidbits, being blind to big ideas.

I ask this of my friends, and their answer is the worst I could have imagined.

                                                                Black.

The color of shock: learning that this will be my life as an actress.