Writing Prompt Stories (And Other Things)

0.04

God, she decided, had painted the world colourless. There was no respite in the wash of greys and blacks that had faded her world to a cheap replica. Sometimes, there would be sound, a bright ribbon that burst into her colourless world, shrill and clear until it warped and turned ugly. The clack of heels, the soft murmuring of voices, the beep of the monitor. But then the door closed, securing the window that separated her from the rest of the world.

Silence.

She was a canvas, but the paint that gave her life had been stripped away by the punishing brush of God. An empty artwork, devoid of love or happiness. She would sit in the museum, but no one would ever notice her.

She supposed once she had been happy because she remembered the colours. Red, blue, yellow. But like a distant memory, they were faded, snapshots captured in blurry film. She didn't want to forget them. She wanted to hold them close, feel the warmth she knew she must've felt then. But the people that had loved her were gone. And soon, she would be too.

The day was ending, like the curtains closing on a play. But her life had not been like a play, she had existed listlessly, hopelessly, trapped in a cycle that she was finally breaking free of. Outside, she could faintly hear the nurses, hushed whispers as they looked through the window, the clicking of heels on linoleum. They didn't care. She was just another patient, another bed to be filled and emptied. Temporary.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She was an angel God had lost, but she was coming home soon. She once believed in him, but her suffering had been his downfall. He had abandoned her, and now she was here, a husk of the girl that once lived. She had no plans to forgive.

Now, she lay on the cold, unyielding bed, cocooned in the blank white sheets. She would wither away in her mind, sanity fleeing as the monitor continued to beep. And slowly, she would fade away to a fate that had consumed her from birth. She would let go of the strings that held her to the land of the living, cut the final thread that confined her to this earth. She had not loved. She had not lived. But she was dying, lost in a maze of white walls and the scent of disinfectant. The monitor flatlined, but no tears were wept, no hearts broken.

She was alone.

Always.