Gloria

Gloria sat on the chair.
The chair was white.
In the scheme of things, the color of the chair didn't matter.
The color of the chair didn't even exist.
White isn't even a color.
It is a pathetic lack thereof, competiting in the Aurora Borealis.
The chair was the color of Gloria.
White. But white isn't a color.
Gloria was white, and she thought white.
She drank white, ate white and wore white.
Not all the time, of course.
But it felt like it. Always, always a lack of color.
There was a lack of everything.
Where was the blue and the red? The purple?
Green had packed up and left town a long time ago.
Yellow, forget about it, once it saw Gloria...
Once any color saw Gloria, it just gave up.
Gloria didn't know the difference.
Yellow was the same as white to her.
Blue was white, and so was orange.
Gloria sat in the chair. She was white.
White, she thought, is purple.
White is green and white is blue.
Whatever I see is white, and it can stay that way.
What I think is white.
When I talk, white falls out of me.
When I cry, I cry white.
I see white and white sees me.
Gloria sat thinking of white.
White had always been there.
Even when you couldn't see the pink, the gold.
White was always there for her when nothing else was.
When people spoke to her, it was white, too.
White came back and was constant.
White knew her, inside out.
White was her only friend.
Gloria sat in the chair.
What was a rainbow? She thought.
It's an absurd idea.
Put all of those colors near eachother, she mused.
Somebody was going to get hurt.
I guess somebody had to get hurt.
She supposed it had to be her.
Gloria didn't want the colors anymore.
They were useless.
White was her only friend.
White would never leave her.