There were shades to the color that describes violence. Crimson red is for newly spilt blood. A dark and crusted red is for blood long spilt. A fury orange-red is for the destructive fires that burn. The red of despair, setting the trail for tears to fall, has a touch of pink to it. A mixed, ugly red is for forever. And red, pure and clean and simple, is the color of conflict - the hue of the skies of anguish.
There were shades to the color of oppression. A grey black for the shadows they will fail to fight back. A deep black that splatters itself randomly along the landscape, ink spots of surprised sorrow. The harsh black of jagged, broken buildings, outlines smeared and ragged edged from being pushed down, broken by the echoes of destruction. And the black, black nothingness, waiting just at the corners of your eyes and the edges of the canvas, as you search the painting for some relief...
It is Black, of the tomorrow that never came. It is the void that will eat away the impure reds and the imitation blacks. The color that allowed no white or green or blue or gold or grey. All it is, is endless, endless oblivion.
And that was the Silence.
Michiru paused as her brush stopped at the center of the canvas. The blacks and reds spread itself before her, unfolding its complex structures from the layers upon layers of paint. The dream she could not escape from, the vision of the future she must learn to face, has finally gained substance. Her breath came in pants, as if she had just awakened from the nightmare that she could not escape from no matter how fast or how far she ran. "This is it," she murmured to herself, half in satisfaction and half in despair.
Outside the birds chirped as the sunlight crept along the side-walks, ignorant of the things to come.