When Claire first arrived at Everwood, the faces and hands that took her outside encouraged her to garden. They’d put tools in her hands, but she wouldn’t grip—she couldn’t. It was too painful. It reminded Claire of the gardens on the estate or those in paradise. In time, the faces gave up. That was Claire’s assumption—she didn’t ask. No matter the why, they no longer asked her to comply.

On the occasions, when she tried to remember her life—she couldn’t. It all blended into the same grayness—the place where dark became light and light became dark—the place between places. There was before—earlier—long ago—once upon a time—when life had color, and there was then—the time when all life disappeared—when the grayness won—the time after the dark.

Her efforts to contain the grayness were useless, and with time, she no longer tried. It seeped from every compartment, leaked into her thoughts, and filled every void. Her world—her reality—was gray—colorless.

Then, unexpectedly, like his voice and without reason, hues of color would infiltrate her world. It was the color of unsolicited memories. She was powerless to stop them. Usually, they’d begin well enough with greens of spring and the blues of waves upon a lake. Without warning, an overwhelming pain—a demobilizing sense of loss would stop her. Worse than the gray, this was nothing—not white—not black—NOTHING!

This void wasn’t only brought on by the loss of Tony. Oh, Claire knew his ways; he’d return long enough to rekindle the passion, ignite her need, and disappear again. This nothingness was something else—an emptiness she couldn’t identify—one that even the gray couldn’t penetrate—one that clawed at her heart. If she allowed her thoughts to linger in the nothingness for too long, it tore her soul to shreds, and she felt every slash—fleeting memories of a baby and a fire. It was the most agonizing pain she’d ever experienced, and without a doubt, Claire was a veteran of pain. She’d endured loss, undergone tragedy, and withstood physical suffering—hell, she’d braved death itself.

Without warning, this emptiness would approach—rattle her soul—and bring her to her knees. When it did, her body would collapse. She’d hear a primal plea escape her lips—not a cry—not simple tears on her pillow. She’d hear a wail of torment that no one but she could understand. When this happened—the people would come. They’d speak words she couldn’t comprehend and a new pain would come to her arm.

Sometimes she’d scream just to feel the bliss of the sharp prick. The faces and voices didn’t understand...she couldn’t ask—that would constitute as divulging information; nonetheless, the sharp sensation led to sleep—a reprieve from the conscious grayness and suffocating nothingness. Life was no longer real. Perhaps it never had been and it never would be...

Sometimes Claire remembered black voids. Those thoughts didn’t frighten her; on the contrary, the black overpowered the gray—consumed the nothingness and filled her with the promise of intense emotion. Nothing about Tony had ever been gray. There were always colors...blues, greens, reds, and browns. So much could be assessed by the shade of brown. The memory of that brown becoming black made her heart beat faster, pulse rage uncontrollably, and body hunger for the passion only he could provide.

At times, Claire fantasized about Tony’s eyes—starring endlessly at anything, remembering his ability to communicate with a simple glance. The sight of something dark brown or black electrified every nerve within her body, but when she saw chocolate brown, it sent her entire being into spasms.

Claire stopped caring, months or years ago. Time was no longer relevant. She had a new goal. It was to wait until he returned, held her, caressed her, and loved her. Until his gaze filled her being, until he consumed the nothingness and made the grayness go away—until he brought the color back to her bleak world.

Claire had been walking outside with a faceless voice. The voice had been talking, and she’d been walking. The air was warm and the sky was clear. Claire assumed it was blue, although she only saw gray—the way things appeared on black and white television. The woman beside her seemed familiar—yet not—as she spoke on and on.

Claire didn’t try to listen; instead, she concentrated on walking with the talking woman. This obedience earned her temporary exodus from her desolate room. It was a compromise she could sometimes stand. As they entered the building and walked through the cafeteria, Claire peered beyond her bubble, long enough to see someone familiar. The realization sent her back—immobilized her—memories sped by—colors flooded her gray. She couldn’t compartmentalize fast enough.