• The words were quiet, but I heard. “I always see color drain from everything, like the color of a sea shell, the rainbows it presents no longer has any paint; it’s dull. I no longer see the leaves’ vibrant colors as they change, the green just drains to charcoal black. Just seeing the leaves change and fall wouldn’t bother you, but it bugs me too much, as if the world was killing itself. Whenever I see something lose color, I feel a sense of loss, a sense of despair, of sorrow. I try to cope with it, but I can’t. I get angry at myself for letting the things die. It makes me want to run away, to a place where everything stays alive, but I know that nothing can stay alive forever. The only relief I’m managed to discover is this,” he showed me his palm.
    Slices and cuts covered his entire arm; layer after layer – and then I thought, we’ve had this disease for maybe a month now. I made myself think of the pain he must be in, seeing something die would be more of an impact to him then me – I would only see it motionless and cold; he would also feel the cold of it, but he would also see the color leave. How many times would he have to see something die to get this many cuts? I haven’t even heard of cutting for a source of relief, just a source of pain.
    And then I thought, what if he’s in more pain and depression than I am?