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The sky is blue, a solid azure, a painted and oversaturated aqua. Where you would expect there to be minor deviation in the color, a dip into a minor grey due to a cloud, or a leap into white because of the sun, you find only more blue. Your eyedropper, you have it with you, it's just in the folds of your satchel - close an eye and squeeze on the rubber end, before gulping up a sample of the air. What does it tell you?
The red channel is deficit of any value. The green and blue channels, however, are completely full to the brim.
Now, look around you - there's not much to the landscape. It resembles a city, but it is only in resemblance that we call it a city. There are roads, sure, but those too are a solid color - your eyedropper says all three channels are about evenly halved. And the towers along the roads, those are a pearly, ivory white, though they are but rectangular prisms jutting out of the ground.
You walk along the road, taking in the infinite sight. There is never a dull moment, for all the corners are sharp as a razor, and if you wanted to, you could very well dive into a building and cleave yourself in two. Perhaps the blood is the red missing from the sky. You contemplate the thought for a moment. You've already... you've already...
Please, you're at peace now. This is no time to dwell on the past.
Just keep walking.
*Clip clap clip clap.* Your shoes, or, whatever facsimile of shoes you don, seem to be the only thing that make any sound. You don't think to pound on the walls of the monoliths, you don't think to knock on the ground and ask if someone is home. If the edges are able to kill, then perhaps the ground might too, so you play it safe.
You stop. There's a strange opening into one of these pillars, a square cut into the side, revealing it to be perfectly hollow. The other side, too, is similarly cut. To call it a door would imply that there was once something that covered it, or that there would have been any way to cover up the wound at all, but nonetheless, you press onward inside. You look up, darkness. You don't need your eyedropper to tell you that there is nothing.
Instead, though, you pull out something else from your satchel - a dotted rectangle. It shouldn't be holding together, but it is. You step out from the hovel and back into the light, before positioning the rectangle to capture all the astute beauty of the aberration. You blink and, a copy of the environment is deposited onto the ground. It's a canvas, freshly painted with all the colors of the world - all eight or nine of them. Grasping it, dragging it up from the depths, you admire it. The handiwork is marvelous, divine - couldn't even see any strokes of a brush. It's just... too perfect.
You decide to leave it there, at the scene. Perhaps another wayward soul will want a souvenir.
How long has it been since you got here. Hours? Days? Years, millennia? They don't measure time here. Who measures time anymore? Only the hobbits of bureaucracy. Only those who find numbers meaningful, only those who define people by their net worth, the number on their phone with a dollar sign or peso sign or euro sign or whatever currency, whatever coinage, as long as you pay, you are free, but if you *cannot?*
Please, relax. You don't have to worry about that anymore.
*Clip clop clip clop.* You've been walking for forever. Or maybe you just started. It's not like your legs hurt, it's not like you're pained from it. The only pain is inside you, but on the outside, you look fine. Satchel at the hip, donned in white robes, a long dress that paints you as it does the towers around you.
You stop, again, to admire the scenery - there is nothing but scenery. *Clip clop clip clop.* Ah, the sound must be delayed. Isn't this wonderful? Isn't this so...
So...
"Moira?"
You pause. "Jackie?"
Though there is no air, it is still thick and rife with complexity. The person across from you on the road is dressed much like you, white robes, a grey satchel, though their skin is darker than yours, more a chocolate than anything, and their hair is black, frayed and frizzled, but mostly droops down onto their neck and shoulders.
But, the situation stabs at you. You both got here the same way, both a way that you're ashamed of, both a way that you shouldn't have gotten here.
You speak, finally. "Was it because of me?"
"What?"
"You being here..." You grasp your chest and start to weep. "Was it because of me?!"
Jackie holds out her hands, and her mouth, but nothing comes out. She looks to the side, grasping an arm. Then, and only then, does she say anything of meaning. "No, no, it wasn't..."
You sniff up a tear. "A-alright, I... good. Sorry. I'm so sorry."
"There's..." She trails off. "There's no reason to apologize." Jackie looks at the ground and sighs. Her eyebrows raise a bit. "Moira... I want to know, like... I want to know why. Why did you do it?"
Your mind swarms, but then, it fades. Swarms again, and fades again. You really don't want to think about that, you don't want to think about the *why*, it should be over now, it's all over, but it's gnawing at you. It gnaws at you.
You muster up all the courage you can in this depraved state. "It... it was a lot. Money wasn't coming in from my work, at least, not enough of it, and the bank was on my heel, so I..." So you. You don't even think to ask what your accompaniment here did. What she felt. "I'm sorry. It was selfish of me."
She seems to understand. Seems to. Her crossed arms and mild look of concern was always enough for you. "It wasn't selfish, Moira. You're..." A drawn breath. "You're fine."
There's a small period of time where nothing is really spoken. Nothing is really said. Where nothing is... made known. There is no wind to billow by and carry your words, no grass for you to lie down and breathe, no soul for you to rest yours on. Ah, but, that's the rub.
Finally, something comes to you. "This place isn't so bad, Jackie. Nobody's here to boss us around. Just us two."
She looks to the side with worry, clasping her hands in front of her chest. "I guess?" Then she looks to the ground. "I guess this is probably the best place for us both."
"See? You get it!" Does she? "It's perfect, isn't it? This must be the best place."
That's not what she said. "Yeah, sure, babe."
"Is something on your mind?"
Jackie breathes in, then breathes out. In, then out. You understand the nervousness, sure, but now isn't the time to keep secrets.
"It was your fault, Moira."
Okay, maybe it is. "What?"
She's now screaming, yelling, pushing her fists down as far as they go, making advances. "It was your fault, alright?! It was you! I'm here because of *you!*"
Fire up the panic. "I- I'm sorry, okay?! I just couldn't take it anymore!"
"Yeah, same with me, buster! Or should I say-"
You step back. "Please, don't, you wouldn't!"
"Or *should* I say-"
"You don't understand me!"
"You don't understand *me*, Max!" She said it. "You don't know what I've been through! What my father did to me, raising high hell and back, what I've done for you to keep you happy, you don't have the *right*, you don't have the *privilege*, to be in pain. You didn't have the right to- to- to bring yourself here!"
You're just as mad. "Just say it! Don't beat around the bush, say it!"
"You didn't have the fucking *right* to kill yourself!"
Haha. Ahaha! You're doubled over in a crazed, manic laughter. "So I was right?! So I was *fucking-*" Breathe, love. Swallow that spittle. "So I was right. So my fears *were* justified? Just say it. Tell me I'm selfish. Tell me everything I did wrong. Tell me everything you hate and loathe about me. Tell me I'm the rat you know me to be."
But then, Jackie changes her tone. She's still mad, but she's also still concerned. "You're sick, Moira. You're sick."
"Ohoho, I'm not sick, Jackie." You feel like you're bleeding out of your eyes. "These tools i'm given, this place, this area, it's so obvious. You demons make it so obvious!"
"Moira, snap out of it, you're insane!"
"I'm not insane." The realization dawns on you. "You're not insane. We're not insane. We're in hell."