memories that you call; roan series

Your knife finds a home in the target's chest, a rose blooms from the wound.

(but there's nothing to pick, nothing to admire)

Jane calls it scarlet, you call it grey; strip away the basis of brightness and your shade is no different. There's nothing to admire, no difference between shadow and brightness -- there's no part of you in the audible thunk that sounds, no piece of yourself left in the hilt protruding from a synthetic rib cage. There's no confetti falling from the sky, no trumpets to signal a false victory.

You aren't something to admire, you struggle to see yourself in the steadiness of your wrist, the fluidity of your motion. This is a twisted Copernican system, the contractions of your muscles is no different from the mechanics that drive clockwork and the flick of your wrist can be reduced to steady steps and flawed logic. Strip away the basis of brightness and you squint to find the need for creativity, the opportunities to dream.

A rose blooms from your chest; a shade of grey springs from your heart and grows strong. There's no pride behind the twisting between your rib cage, no smile behind your blank stare. No one ever said 'you train like a dreamer.'

You paint like one, Jane said it herself. You find the stars behind solid brush strokes and a facial features contorted with concentration, you try to find the color of passion. But it's a pointless quest, an empty gesture, because there's no more color to passion anymore than there is a color to Jane's eyes, or Rose's hair. There's nothing to see, nothing to cherish -- so why do I keep trying?

Because you're a dreamer, and it bleeds into the work you leave across a canvas.

Still, you accept the nod behind the instructor's clipboard. You don't dare to peek at what he scrawls on the paper, this is what it means to be judged by mechanics. By the bruises you leave, the false blood you draw; you don't care. You nod to him, giving him a weak smile and he tells you it was good. "Thanks." Because it's all you can manage, a meek acceptance and your teeth in your bottom lip.

You give yourself to routine, Mother calls you to meet in the hall and you lose yourself in the crowd. Wide eyes pinned to the ground and footsteps lost in a sea of others. But this isn't a march, you're no soldier, there's no glory to be won in routine. And perhaps that's why you find solace in it. Because when you stray from its confines, you break your arm when you fall from a stolen trolley, you despair when the sky is no different from the sea; you always find yourself in trouble.

That's where the contradiction lies; you're desperate to escape the confines of your own limitations. You'd give a piece of your heart if it meant seeing the color in Jane's eyes, to understand the blonde texture in Rose's hair, to appreciate the colors you leave across your canvas past the basis of brightness. Even if just for a second. You want to be whole, to understand what it means to no longer live an existence you consider partial. And yet you can't help but shy away when Jane tries to take your hand and show you something past the ashen texture of Hailsham Institute's walls.

You're searching for Rose's gaze when mother clears her throat and the sound of her voice tears you from your thoughts. You look up and face her, you face them all. And you notice the man on the left shift uncomfortably in his seat, the woman on the right refuse to meet any of your eyes. “Well, I guess the term children is hardly appropriate anymore.”

You dare to inhale, dare to let your thoughts linger.

“Things are going to be different now-”

you don't dare to question, you don't dare to protest. You hate change.

Especially this one.

In the span of a few sentences, you find yourself stripped of a sacred sovereignty you never had. Your body is not yours.

(it never was)

Giving your partial existence to Copernican systems and wishing for star storms. Giving your body to training and your mind to the arts because you dedicated yourself to chasing color of passion, dismissing the color of love because you were living a lie. Yet the mind you cherished is not yours to hold, the pulse you hold isn't yours to lose.

“And you must all understand what your role is from here on out, okay?”

"Yes ma'am."

The words you speak, they're not yours, either.

The world becomes an ashen blur; black, white and everything in between all metamorphose into one empty riptide. But there's no bitterness, no tears cut your cheeks, no sob escapes your lips. You search for your compass, you search for Jane but you can't see. Strip away the basis of brightness and there's only one shade of grief to find in the darkness. "Excuse me," you manage to speak meekly, standing up and stepping past a body beside you. "I need to go."

Your heart, no, their heart hammers in your chest.

You're running to get somewhere, to get away.

And the wind whips your face, pulls your hair and carries your labored breathing. You forget, and then you remember, these lungs that draw air are not yours.

You turn a corner, you open a door, you find the gates and you scream.

(but you are not Poseidon)

You are no storm. And that reminder is bitter when you rage against the gates. Slamming your hands, your fists and your forehead into the metal. Yet the chain doesn't break, the lock doesn't crack and the metal doesn't bend. You are not a tempest, no lightning hails from the grey sky and thunder doesn't roll across the sky.

There's no bang, only a whimper.

You remind yourself; these lungs are not yours. So you tell yourself to be quiet, despite the pain blooming across your fists and your palm, the discomfort growing from your forehead. "Why?" You glance behind you, you search for your compass, but there's no one there. No one sees you.

(a dream, a routine, it was always too good to be true)

This body is not yours to damage; you scream again.

Come the night, with your back leaning against the steel gates and your backside in the sand, you've screamed until your voice has cracked. You've kicked and sobbed yourself into emptiness and now the world's no longer swimming. The Earth is still turning, you look up and see the stars, twinkles in the sky that aren't yours to admire. You've cried yourself into acceptance.

This partial existence is not yours to mourn.

A rose blooms from the sky, another point in this black and white spectrum that you've grown all too adverse to travelling along. You're defective, this existence is partial and you're dreaming if you think you find a piece to make yourself whole. They can't take defective eyes, they can't take your defective eyes.

So, you stare at the grey rose that blooms from the stars and cherish what you have left.

[dars]