Paint it Black


Black. The only color I ever truly feel at ease with. The night is my solitude, for in the night everything is dark, and so very, very peaceful. The stars shine, but they are insubstantial, immaterial compared to the vast emptiness of the night.


When I close my eyes, everything turns black, and for a few beautiful moments, I am at peace. No battles, no war, no memories—just peace.


Why black, you question? Why such a dark, depressing color?


If I were to list all of the reasons, we would be here until the world ended. But I can tell you why not.


I can hardly stand to see the color red. It reminds me too much of the blood that has stained my hands, my life—of the lives I have taken and will take, the battles I have fought and will fight, the blood I have spilt and will spill, or shed.


Red is the violent color of my life, yet black covers it, makes it so I don’t have to see it, to remember.


Orange is possibly the color I hate the most. It is the color of flames—the color of the flames that consumed the only place I ever called home, destroyed the only people I ever called family.


Orange brings back those haunting memories, memories of fire and smoke and flames and ash, and a choked, broken voice whispering,


‘...may you have...God’s blessing...’


But black soothes away the flames, smothers them even as they scream for vengeance.


Yellow is nearly on the same level as orange, possibly more, for it contains so many memories that I can hardly breathe when I see it. Yellow is the flickering flames once more, the subtle undertone that seems to taunt you with its elusiveness.


It is the filthy, unwashed blonde of the hair hair of the boy I considered my brother, who died in my arms even as I pleaded for him not to go, not to leave me alone in this cruel, hateful world.


It is the beautiful spun golden of the hair of the woman that was the closest thing to a mother or a sister that I ever had, who too died in my arms as I pleaded and wept, that beautiful shining hair stained dark by blood.


But black destroys the yellow, beats it back even as it attempts to surround me and shine through me, stripping me bare for the world to see.


Green is the bright, verdant color of the eyes of that same brother, who died as I watched the light fade from those beautiful eyes, watched as they turned dull and finally closed, never to open again.


Green is the color of the Earth, the place that is the reason I have no home, no family, the reason I have given up my life, my childhood, my innocence to defend the place I call home, the people I call family. The place that has destroyed me, over and over again, and the place that I will give anything to protect.


But black overtakes the green, takes it in its chilling embrace and covers it with the darkest night.


Blue is the color of the sky, the sky that taunts me with its vast distances, its eternal emptiness, taunts me with the promise of unbroken wings, the promise of freedom.


Blue is the color of the oceans, those oceans that as a child we all wished that someday we could see , stand upon the shore and gaze out into the world, and wonder why we exist. I am the only one who ever did, and their voices call to me in the crashing waves, always asking ‘why?’


And blue is the eyes of the boy who is perfection personified, always cold like ice and hard like a diamond. It is this boy above all others who has made me hate the color blue, for with every insult, every cold rejection, every stony glare, another small part of my heart shatters, and I know that it is the fault of those cold blue eyes, those eyes that for all their perfection will never be warm, will never see the truth.


But black drowns out the blue, makes it so that if even for only a few fleeting moments, I do not see those eyes—though I know that when the night comes, they will haunt me in my dreams and my waking nightmares.


And finally, purple. The one color I truly despise with all my heart, for it is the color that I see every time I look in the mirror, every time I dare to see myself and wonder at what I have become. Every time I dare to lower my mask, for just a brief moment, and see the broken boy that hides underneath. The color that entrances me as I gaze into my own eyes, and wonder what others see within them and me.


Not even black can destroy the purple, only blend with it, mute it, for it is always there—taunting me from the mirror, gazing at me beneath my closed eyelids. It is always there, and so I despise it.


In the end, black is the only friend I’ve ever had. For black is the night, is darkness, is sadness, is death—but it is peace.


For in the blackness, I do not have to see all those other colors, the ones that mock me, laugh at me, drown me in my memories—and taunt me with this beautiful world that I will never be a part of.




Yet another plot bunny latching on to my ankle and refusing to let go until I wrote it. This is Duo-centric, again, in case you couldn’t tell, and yet another deeper meaning to one of the many layers of our favorite braided pilot.


...perhaps I should make a series out of this? Hmmm...-brainstorms-


DISCLAIMER: I hold no claim to Gundam Wing or any related franchises. The plot, however, belongs to me.






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