Gray Days

Chapter 1: The Start of The End

1

Zoey.

Days from now, it's going to start again.

But the question is: How does it start?

The suicidal thoughts and the feeling that you're not good enough to live this life. The scars on the wrists and the stories behind them. The realization that the world is a huge ball of land and water and you're just a tiny speck of dust standing on the freshly-trimmed grasses.

Do they start when someone special die or leave you for someone else? Do they start when the loads of what the people call depression take its toll on you? Is it the books or maybe the movies that trigger something inside you and make you do what shouldn't be done? Or is it the mere idea of living that pluck the last straw you've been holding on to?

And when does it end?

The fading colors of man, fighting to be and stay in the world of colorful men. The silent screeches behind doors and under beds and in the words painted itchingly over the scarred flesh. The nightmares ending and starting at the same time.

Does it end when you're finally sleeping inside the casket made especially for you? Does it end when death takes you in his arms and carries you all the way to the home of the broken souls? Or does it end at all?

"Think about it," the colorful men would say to me, "the beauty of life."

Ever since I was a child, my parents taught me to tell the truth, always. When I reached a certain point of middle school, I figured I couldn't always tell the truth, but that didn't mean I should lie. So I kept silent instead. But my silence didn't mean I got away with it. Sooner or later, mostly sooner, my family, my friends, or anyone else, would find out about it. Now, in the senior year of high school, the only truth I have been hiding that no one has found out about yet is this: I am thinking about it, the beauty of life.

Not long ago I realized something: When you are always seeing it, it's hard not to think about it. I am looking at the beauty of life every day. The smiles and laughter on my friends' faces. The familial jokes thrown on the kitchen table as we eat dinner. The warmth of their eyes and the safety of their words. It is always so beautiful.

But that doesn't mean that I am thinking about it and surrounded with it that they can keep me out of the shadows. Maybe that's where I belong? Maybe in this huge ball of life, it is not its beauty that calls out to me but its shadows. Maybe. But I wouldn't really know. One thing I am sure of right now, in the middle of the party I am stuck in, with drunk faces of colorful boys and girls here and there, I definitely belong in the shadows.

Curled up in a ball with my chin and knees touching, I am talking to Merlin, in the corner of the house of Camelot. Friends since time had allowed us to be, Lance Fletcher, back in the last years of grade school, upon knowing what inspired his name, has been an avid follower of the legend of King Arthur. It didn't help that somewhat his father's name is Arthur and his mother is Elaine. But even though, in the middle of his obsession of the Britons, he didn't fail to pull off the drunkest and loudest party the first snow has ever witnessed.

Merlin is beside me and I am smoothing his golden coat as he nestles his head on my legs, trying to shut out the loud party before us. "What do you think about this, Merlin?" I ask him quietly, not entirely sure if I'm talking out my own suicidal ideation or the ongoing party. And as if he can understand my words and hear me with all this partying, he looks up. I scratch the top of his head, contented with his company, and in response, he demands me to straighten myself up so that he can hop on to my lap and cuddle.