Leona woke-up to another grey day. The sky was grey, her bedding was also grey and she felt, that if you could see her organs, they would be grey too. She knew it was going to be a long day.
“Guilt,” she thinks must be grey and its texture must be thick and foggy and cold. On days like today, when everything is grey, she imagines cutting her arm, on really bad days she would do more than just imagine it. One those days she would take a knife and run it along her arm, watching the bright red blood run down. For a moment the blood would dispel the grey, but eventually the blood would coagulate and turn brown and then grey again, and nothing would change unless she cut her arm once more. If you look at Leona’s arms, you can see the pale linear scars bisecting the freckles that are sprinkled so abundantly all over her.
Some days, if they grey isn’t too bad she could dig out her red shoes and sometimes that would be enough to lift the shadows away. On the day that this story takes place, shoes were not an option.