Greyscale death
Oct. 5th, 2008 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aviSo I was all kinds of bored and unmotivated last night. So I wrote something I've been intending to turn into a short story of some kind at some point. It's probably crap, since I haven't written anything outside of PbP rp's for aaaaaaaages.
----------------------------
It was my fourth job interview this week, and they had all ended the same way. Like flakes of paint, the colours were peeling away from him as I watched. At first it had been just a spot on his tie, this otherwise spotlessly clean and correct HR guy. Now his entire tie, butterfly patterns and all, was just a dirty grey strip down his chest. His white shirt, too, is flecked with grey spots. I presume there's some on his pants, too. Some of the colour is falling on his desk in front of him, the rest is all on the floor. I can feel it there.
"Miss Chevlin."
He's talking to me. He has perfect English, the Queen's own words flowing out of his mouth, in my left ear, and out the right.
"Miss Chevlin, are you quite alright?"
I should probably reply. Not that it matters; he'll be completely gone, soon.
"Oh. Uh, sorry sir, I was just uh, daydreaming," I tell him, realising too late that it's not the best thing to say to the man who's whim would control whether I would get the job or not. "I mean, uh. It's not your fault or anything, I just got distracted by the grey spots on your eyes."
"I'm sorry, grey spots?" he asks me, although he's not really asking a question. It's not what he expects to hear, so he's waiting for me to give a 'better' explanation. One that makes sense. I decide to oblige him. It wouldn't hurt to be a little bit polite, after all.
"Don't worry, sir. I just see the wrong colours, sometimes. It's why I dropped out of design school," I tell him, the usual explanation. If I couldn't keep my big mouth shut, at least I could come up with a consistent excuse for my inanities.
"Alright. Let's move on, then, and please try to pay attention. It's hardly becoming for an aspiring employee to lose focus in her first interview. Now, we were discussing why someone with your qualifications is interested in working on the night-shift cleaning..."
The interview didn't take too much longer. By the end of it, only his shoes and fingernails still had any hints of colour. By tomorrow, he'll have faded away completely.
I'm not sure why it happens, or even what's happening. I haven't figured out yet whether I'm cursed, or crazy. Maybe both. I've been too afraid to ask if anyone else can see it. I don't think they can, though. Unless they're like me, and they're all as afraid to mention it as I am.
---
The next morning, I try calling his office. Look at me, I can't even remember the guy's name, and I was in there for half an hour answering his questions. I guess when I know they're starting to fade, I don't even bother trying to remember. It hurts less, that way, when they're gone.
Halfway through the second ring, someone picks up.
"Hello, Kenson & Kenson accounting. What can I help you with?"
It's a woman's voice, probably a secretary. Whoever it is, it's not him.
"Hi! I'm looking for, uh, one sec please," I say, sounding slightly embarrassed. Of course, I don't even know who I'm looking for. I rummage around on the kitchen counter for my diary and flip through it to yesterday.
"Sorry, are you still there? Thanks. I'm looking for a Mr. Daniel Smith, I had an interview with him yesterday?" I ask, trying to keep the nervous quaver out of my voice. She doesn't seem to notice- or if she does, she doesn't mention it.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Smith hasn't called in yet today," she tells me, sounding bored now. "Can I take a message for him?"
"No, thanks," I answer, all too quickly, hanging up with a click. I'd call again tomorrow, just to be sure. If I went back to his office, I knew what I'd find. His colours would be resting in a disorganised pile on the floor, like autumn leaves in hues of blue and white. Sometimes, I think they're beautiful. That is, until I remember what they mean.
I wonder where they all go?
Or maybe I'm just crazy. I think it would be better if I was.
----------------------------
Comments and criticisms welcome.
----------------------------
It was my fourth job interview this week, and they had all ended the same way. Like flakes of paint, the colours were peeling away from him as I watched. At first it had been just a spot on his tie, this otherwise spotlessly clean and correct HR guy. Now his entire tie, butterfly patterns and all, was just a dirty grey strip down his chest. His white shirt, too, is flecked with grey spots. I presume there's some on his pants, too. Some of the colour is falling on his desk in front of him, the rest is all on the floor. I can feel it there.
"Miss Chevlin."
He's talking to me. He has perfect English, the Queen's own words flowing out of his mouth, in my left ear, and out the right.
"Miss Chevlin, are you quite alright?"
I should probably reply. Not that it matters; he'll be completely gone, soon.
"Oh. Uh, sorry sir, I was just uh, daydreaming," I tell him, realising too late that it's not the best thing to say to the man who's whim would control whether I would get the job or not. "I mean, uh. It's not your fault or anything, I just got distracted by the grey spots on your eyes."
"I'm sorry, grey spots?" he asks me, although he's not really asking a question. It's not what he expects to hear, so he's waiting for me to give a 'better' explanation. One that makes sense. I decide to oblige him. It wouldn't hurt to be a little bit polite, after all.
"Don't worry, sir. I just see the wrong colours, sometimes. It's why I dropped out of design school," I tell him, the usual explanation. If I couldn't keep my big mouth shut, at least I could come up with a consistent excuse for my inanities.
"Alright. Let's move on, then, and please try to pay attention. It's hardly becoming for an aspiring employee to lose focus in her first interview. Now, we were discussing why someone with your qualifications is interested in working on the night-shift cleaning..."
The interview didn't take too much longer. By the end of it, only his shoes and fingernails still had any hints of colour. By tomorrow, he'll have faded away completely.
I'm not sure why it happens, or even what's happening. I haven't figured out yet whether I'm cursed, or crazy. Maybe both. I've been too afraid to ask if anyone else can see it. I don't think they can, though. Unless they're like me, and they're all as afraid to mention it as I am.
---
The next morning, I try calling his office. Look at me, I can't even remember the guy's name, and I was in there for half an hour answering his questions. I guess when I know they're starting to fade, I don't even bother trying to remember. It hurts less, that way, when they're gone.
Halfway through the second ring, someone picks up.
"Hello, Kenson & Kenson accounting. What can I help you with?"
It's a woman's voice, probably a secretary. Whoever it is, it's not him.
"Hi! I'm looking for, uh, one sec please," I say, sounding slightly embarrassed. Of course, I don't even know who I'm looking for. I rummage around on the kitchen counter for my diary and flip through it to yesterday.
"Sorry, are you still there? Thanks. I'm looking for a Mr. Daniel Smith, I had an interview with him yesterday?" I ask, trying to keep the nervous quaver out of my voice. She doesn't seem to notice- or if she does, she doesn't mention it.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Smith hasn't called in yet today," she tells me, sounding bored now. "Can I take a message for him?"
"No, thanks," I answer, all too quickly, hanging up with a click. I'd call again tomorrow, just to be sure. If I went back to his office, I knew what I'd find. His colours would be resting in a disorganised pile on the floor, like autumn leaves in hues of blue and white. Sometimes, I think they're beautiful. That is, until I remember what they mean.
I wonder where they all go?
Or maybe I'm just crazy. I think it would be better if I was.
----------------------------
Comments and criticisms welcome.