Around you is pure black. You feel watched by a thousand eyes, somehow. Maybe that is what happens when the world has nowhere to send you, no person that cherishes you enough to set this strange phenomena in motion. You don't know what will happen next. Maybe you will die? It would be for the best, if you're this hopeless at only 18 years old.
You resign yourself to your obvious fate. Burying the hope you'd dared to feel the day prior. Harshly reprimanding it for its audacity to exist, when you should've known you were not worth anything. Especially the love of another.
You imagine what it will be like when you're old. With wrinkles and other signs of age making you even less attractive than you find yourself today. Not that you have much hope for your looks right now, either.
You imagine this for a while, but grow bored of it. The silence is deafening, in a strange way. You can't deny that you're a little concerned about when, where - no, if - you will wake up again.
The silence hums your name, but you can't hear it.
The darkness is warm, but you can't feel it.
The everything around you cradles you, in an attempt to grant you solace from your thoughts. But to you, it's all just empty nothingness. There is nothing here for you.
A sigh, and everything ends. You open your eyes to the same room you fell asleep in. The pitiful-looking, little calendar on your pale yellow wall tells you that it is indeed your birthday.
You didn't wake up with somebody else, unlike everyone you've ever met, known, heard of. You feel shame for something you felt powerless about. Perhaps it means something is wrong with you. You feel too empty to think about it.
A morning routine that could've matched anyone else's begins. Get dressed, brush your teeth. Forget to eat breakfast. Lament how pointless it is to go wherever you need to be going today. Leave the house anyway.
Nobody lives with you. Of course not. The only person remotely close to you is an old lady living next door. You've never been too good with people, but she's comforting in her slow pace and how she doesn't care much for anything outside her home.
Maybe you'll visit her today. As you've now learned, it's not like anyone is waiting for you.
She sits at the old table on the porch, waving at you from afar. She sees unusually well for an old lady. You wave back.
You exchange pleasantries. She invites you to sit down on the empty chair next to her, and you accept. You've never seen anyone with her, either, now that you think about it.
"What's with the long face, young one?" she asks. You don't really want to answer, but you do it anyway. Beginning with how it is your birthday, how you were supposed to wake up next to somebody today. Then you fall into a ramble, on how you were only met with that black nothingness. How you don't know why you expected any more. That you're disappointed anyway. By the end of it, you're crying on some old lady's porch.
The old lady hasn't interrupted you. She's a listener, not a talker, most of the time. Sometimes she will intently listen for hours, and then say nothing at all on the matter. She might offer you cookies, though. The cookies are good.
This time, the old lady gives you an answer.
"This phenomenon you speak of," she says, humming contently as she pours herself some tea.
"it was not around when I was your age. It did not stop anybody from finding our loved ones then. It will not stop you now."
She smiled, almost grinned. It was hard to tell - most of her teeth were missing.
"But I think you did find what's attracted to you. What loves you."
You only respond with a dry laugh. You don't know what else to say. She's sounding a little ridiculous. Nothing loves you.
For a while, neither of you say anything. She hums along to some tune of years gone by. Sips her tea. Then she briefly disappears into her home.
You wonder if you should leave. If you've overstayed your welcome. Maybe you have.
You get up, but just as you do, she returns. In her hands, she has a rectangular, flat box, a stack of papers, and a glass of water.
She sits down again, and you awkwardly sit down as well.
"You know, I used to be a little bit of a painter!" she exclaims. Giddy, almost. You don't know where this is going.
"Say, do you know how to mix black?"
You can't tell if it's a genuine question. You try to recall art classes from school, but it's all a blur.
"Well, most people just use black paint. I do, sometimes! But you can mix black. It's from all the colours here, you see. Red, blue, yellow. You can mix everything from combinations of those three, and if you use the same amount of all, you can have black, too."
She opens the box. It contains paints, as you've by now guessed, and an old paintbrush. She wets it with the glass of water, then hands it to you.
"Take some of this yellow, dear."
You comply, though you're not sure why you do.
"Good, put it on the paper. Any way you like."
You draw a circle. It's a little small.
"Now, take some of this blue. Paint it over the yellow."
You give the circle some blue. It's quite green now.
"And finally, this magenta... add it as well."
You do. The circle's colour has muddied now. It's not quite black; probably because you've used different amounts of the colours. You feel bad for making her black so ugly.
"There you are. As you can see, it is black now. I think black is quite the misunderstood colour."
She hums again.
"We love all colours, but say black is too dark. That it isn't creative. I disagree! Black is all colours. A strong black just means you have a good balance of everything important."
She nods to herself, content. You don't know what she means with any of this.
"You say all you saw was black, isn't that right? That must mean," she gets up now, and you worry she might stumble from how fast she's doing it. "that there was a lot of everything important. You can't be in many places at once when you wake up, so it just let you stay home."
You look at her in disbelief. You must look quite pathetic, not understanding what she's trying to get at. What was 'it' supposed to be?
"Everything was there, young one. Everything. The world itself was there. The world is no one person you can wake up next to. But it can let you wake up next to somebody that deserves your love. And it let you wake up with yourself."
She giggles again. So giddy, for an old lady. It's a little contagious, maybe. You get up, and she hugs you. She's never hugged you before, but it doesn't feel so bad. There's a smell of paint on her, of old wood, and warm cookies. A little bit of everything. You think it's good.
"The world loves you. Very much so, my dear."
She smiles her toothless smile. It's a nice smile, you think.
Then she lets go of you, patting your shoulder firmly. Pushing you, gently, away from the porch and into the morning sun.
"Now then. Go out there and love it back, won't you?"
Starwhisker t1_j7v760c wrote
Reply to [WP] The first night of your 18th birthday, you wake up in the bed of someone attracted to you. It’s a well known phenomena, and the world has adjusted to it. You, however, have woken in a dark void. by P-o-t-a-t-o-o
Around you is pure black. You feel watched by a thousand eyes, somehow. Maybe that is what happens when the world has nowhere to send you, no person that cherishes you enough to set this strange phenomena in motion. You don't know what will happen next. Maybe you will die? It would be for the best, if you're this hopeless at only 18 years old.
You resign yourself to your obvious fate. Burying the hope you'd dared to feel the day prior. Harshly reprimanding it for its audacity to exist, when you should've known you were not worth anything. Especially the love of another.
You imagine what it will be like when you're old. With wrinkles and other signs of age making you even less attractive than you find yourself today. Not that you have much hope for your looks right now, either.
You imagine this for a while, but grow bored of it. The silence is deafening, in a strange way. You can't deny that you're a little concerned about when, where - no, if - you will wake up again.
The silence hums your name, but you can't hear it.
The darkness is warm, but you can't feel it.
The everything around you cradles you, in an attempt to grant you solace from your thoughts. But to you, it's all just empty nothingness. There is nothing here for you.
A sigh, and everything ends. You open your eyes to the same room you fell asleep in. The pitiful-looking, little calendar on your pale yellow wall tells you that it is indeed your birthday.
You didn't wake up with somebody else, unlike everyone you've ever met, known, heard of. You feel shame for something you felt powerless about. Perhaps it means something is wrong with you. You feel too empty to think about it.
A morning routine that could've matched anyone else's begins. Get dressed, brush your teeth. Forget to eat breakfast. Lament how pointless it is to go wherever you need to be going today. Leave the house anyway.
Nobody lives with you. Of course not. The only person remotely close to you is an old lady living next door. You've never been too good with people, but she's comforting in her slow pace and how she doesn't care much for anything outside her home.
Maybe you'll visit her today. As you've now learned, it's not like anyone is waiting for you.
She sits at the old table on the porch, waving at you from afar. She sees unusually well for an old lady. You wave back.
You exchange pleasantries. She invites you to sit down on the empty chair next to her, and you accept. You've never seen anyone with her, either, now that you think about it.
"What's with the long face, young one?" she asks. You don't really want to answer, but you do it anyway. Beginning with how it is your birthday, how you were supposed to wake up next to somebody today. Then you fall into a ramble, on how you were only met with that black nothingness. How you don't know why you expected any more. That you're disappointed anyway. By the end of it, you're crying on some old lady's porch.
The old lady hasn't interrupted you. She's a listener, not a talker, most of the time. Sometimes she will intently listen for hours, and then say nothing at all on the matter. She might offer you cookies, though. The cookies are good.
This time, the old lady gives you an answer.
"This phenomenon you speak of," she says, humming contently as she pours herself some tea.
"it was not around when I was your age. It did not stop anybody from finding our loved ones then. It will not stop you now."
She smiled, almost grinned. It was hard to tell - most of her teeth were missing.
"But I think you did find what's attracted to you. What loves you."
You only respond with a dry laugh. You don't know what else to say. She's sounding a little ridiculous. Nothing loves you.
For a while, neither of you say anything. She hums along to some tune of years gone by. Sips her tea. Then she briefly disappears into her home.
You wonder if you should leave. If you've overstayed your welcome. Maybe you have.
You get up, but just as you do, she returns. In her hands, she has a rectangular, flat box, a stack of papers, and a glass of water.
She sits down again, and you awkwardly sit down as well.
"You know, I used to be a little bit of a painter!" she exclaims. Giddy, almost. You don't know where this is going.
"Say, do you know how to mix black?"
You can't tell if it's a genuine question. You try to recall art classes from school, but it's all a blur.
"Well, most people just use black paint. I do, sometimes! But you can mix black. It's from all the colours here, you see. Red, blue, yellow. You can mix everything from combinations of those three, and if you use the same amount of all, you can have black, too."
She opens the box. It contains paints, as you've by now guessed, and an old paintbrush. She wets it with the glass of water, then hands it to you.
"Take some of this yellow, dear."
You comply, though you're not sure why you do.
"Good, put it on the paper. Any way you like."
You draw a circle. It's a little small.
"Now, take some of this blue. Paint it over the yellow."
You give the circle some blue. It's quite green now.
"And finally, this magenta... add it as well."
You do. The circle's colour has muddied now. It's not quite black; probably because you've used different amounts of the colours. You feel bad for making her black so ugly.
"There you are. As you can see, it is black now. I think black is quite the misunderstood colour."
She hums again.
"We love all colours, but say black is too dark. That it isn't creative. I disagree! Black is all colours. A strong black just means you have a good balance of everything important."
She nods to herself, content. You don't know what she means with any of this.
"You say all you saw was black, isn't that right? That must mean," she gets up now, and you worry she might stumble from how fast she's doing it. "that there was a lot of everything important. You can't be in many places at once when you wake up, so it just let you stay home."
You look at her in disbelief. You must look quite pathetic, not understanding what she's trying to get at. What was 'it' supposed to be?
"Everything was there, young one. Everything. The world itself was there. The world is no one person you can wake up next to. But it can let you wake up next to somebody that deserves your love. And it let you wake up with yourself."
She giggles again. So giddy, for an old lady. It's a little contagious, maybe. You get up, and she hugs you. She's never hugged you before, but it doesn't feel so bad. There's a smell of paint on her, of old wood, and warm cookies. A little bit of everything. You think it's good.
"The world loves you. Very much so, my dear."
She smiles her toothless smile. It's a nice smile, you think.
Then she lets go of you, patting your shoulder firmly. Pushing you, gently, away from the porch and into the morning sun.
"Now then. Go out there and love it back, won't you?"