I open my eyes and look around. There is a white ceiling, blue curtains, a gray rug, and a brown dresser. All is normal with my room, the way it should be, except for the air, that is. The air is clear like glass, clear like crystal. Clear is such a dreadful color. It's the color of waiting, the color of nothingness, the color of this stagnant, repulsive air that circles around me like a shark and asphyxiates me like a large snake.

I push the bedsheets off of me, sit up, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. There's a pink shirt, gray shorts, white socks, brown hair, and tan skin. All is normal with me, the way it should be, except for the blood, that is. The blood is red like an apple, red like autumn leaves. Red is such a painful color. Red is the color of suffering, the color of malice, the color of this parasitic blood that snakes its way up my entirety like a snail leaving a painful trail. Red is the color of something wrong.

I stand up tentatively and walk down the hall to the bathroom. There's a tan linoleum floor, gray shower curtains, blue walls, a silver medicine cabinet and a white sink. I look into the mirror on the silver medicine cabinet and see my reflection. There are blue eyes and pink lips. All is normal with my image, the way it should be, except for the bruises, that is. The bruises are black like night, black like ants at a picnic. Black is such a fearful color. Black is the color of evil doing and ill will, the color of death, the color of the bruises that spot my face with the horrid memories of loss.

I turn on the water and splash my face. The dry blood washes away into the sink and down the drain. Water fills the oceans and oceans are supposed to be blue. But, they're not blue, are they? They're either black or green. Green like the shirt he was wearing when he died.

I take off my clothes and step into the shower. The hot water stings my wounds momentarily, but the pain soon washes away with the blood. The ceiling is wooden; a thick, dark wood. Probably mahogany, but I don't know. It was him who put it in. The shower head is silver. Silver like silverware, silver like tin. Silver is a fickle color. Silver can be the color of healing like medical instruments or silver can be the color of destruction like the gun they shot him with.

I step out of the shower and put new clothes on, clothes that aren't stained with blood. I leave my other clothes on the floor; I'll deal with them later.

I descend the stairs and enter the kitchen. There's a gray linoleum floor, white cabinets, dark gray counter tops, and a light brown table. Brown is a human color that comes in many shades, much like ourselves. Brown is the color of our hands and of our hair. Brown is the color of the hands that held me back and of the hands that struck me when I tried to save him. Brown was the color of his skin, but not any more. Now in its absence of life, it's pure white like the drugs they took.

I walk into the living room and stop. The air is clear. Clear like oxygen, clear like water. Clear is such an empty color. Clear is the color of indecision, clear is the color of poverty. Clear is the absense of Mike, my husband of 15 years.

Clear is by far the ugliest color.