Dante's Shades of Grey

Have you ever been overcome with melancholy? Dante had. He attributed his misery to his moniker, blaming his parents for naming him after the woeful hero of the Divine Comedy. On most days, however, he likened himself more to the self-loathing protagonist from the film Clerks. In any event, Dante was unhappy. Mired in his own personal misery, he found little solace even in the happiest of things. His life really wasn't that bad – he had a steady job, a close group of friends, and family all around him. Decidedly dejected and depressed, however, Dante couldn't see any of the brightness that illuminated his life.

He'd tried therapy and medication, both of which had worked for a while. The while was short, though, and soon he returned to his despondent nature with aplomb. Hail fell wickedly outside, fitting for a late October storm. Though the room was brightly lit, the lightning that struck outside cast eerily dancing shadows across the walls. Dante ignored them. Instead he focused on the pile of sleeping pills he'd made on the coffee table beside the glass containing copious amounts of whiskey. He'd decided when he woke that morning that this would be his last day of existence, and ignored the foretelling of the resulting, eternal damnation he'd suffer as penance for the abomination of his suicide.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he reached forward and scooped up the tiny white pills. For a moment he clutched them tightly in his hand and closed his eyes. Even the fierce strength with which he kept them shut could not prevent his tears from escaping. Dante screamed aloud, the timing of his cry perfectly coinciding with a bolt of lightning striking the traffic signal at the intersection outside and below his apartment window. The scream of electronic death outside drowned out Dante's weak voice of cowardice. His weeping turned to laughter as he was struck with the realization that he couldn't even kill himself without doubt.

When he opened his eyes though, something startled him. The color of his life was gone. From the pale yellow of his living room walls, to the red cranberry candle that burned on the mantle, to the blue hues of his sofa pillows and the greens of his curtains, all color had faded away. Shrouded in shades of grey, at first he thought that the lightning strike outside had interrupted the power supply to his apartment. A quick glace towards the lamp on the end table beside him confirmed that his electricity was fully functional, and the white light of the illuminated bulb nearly blinded him.

Dante hadn't yet noticed the deafening silence that had enveloped him as he continued to marvel at his sudden loss of colorful sight. The blue and red Buffalo Bills logo of his sweater shirt shone in greyscale only. His flesh even appeared grey, daresay sickly. 

"What the hell is happening?" Dante said aloud.

"This is exactly what you want, isn't it?"

Dante recoiled in horror and leapt from the couch at the sound of the gravelly voice. His back to the fireplace, he grabbed the poker from the stand beside him and knocked the rest of the fireplace tools to the ground with a clatter. The figure seating on the love seat opposite Dante merely grinned. "Who are you? How did you get in here?" Dante demanded to know. Not until the figure rose did Dante notice the small horns protruding from his forehead. "What the hell are you?" Dante asked, the strength having evaporated from his voice. 

"You can call me Virgil."

"What do you want from me?" Dante pleaded, wielding the fireplace poker in front of him as if he had the first clue what to do with it. His breathe quickened, keeping pace with his heartbeat, and for the first time he really looked at the creature before him. Had it not been for the horns, he'd have looked unassuming. About 5'10" in height and of average build, the man, for lack of a better tem, wore a simple, two button suit with a white shirt and darkly colored necktie. His shoes were neatly polished and his cuffs adorned with what Dante assumed were onyx cufflinks. His fingernails were longer but not unreasonably so, and jet black. At least Dante assumed they were black – he continued to see all around him in greyscale.

He'd expected Virgil's flesh to be red, on account of the horns that escaped his hairline, though even in greyscale Dante could tell that the man's face was pale. "What are you, Virgil? Why are you here?"

Virgil raised his eyebrows and began walking about the apartment. As he spoke, he'd stop from time to time to pick up a trinket here and there, examine it curiously, and return it to its place. "Some call me an angel. Some call me a spirit. Others view me as a demon, or a harbinger of death. I prefer to think of myself as a guide."

"A guide of what?"

"Life, my dear boy. Your life, to be precise. Have you not yet noticed that all the color and sound of your existence has been washed away?"

Dante now took note of the lack of sound. It was a haunting silence. "How do you know that? How do you know what I can see and hear?" Dante's fear had given way to his confusion and unconsciously he'd lowered the poker in his hand to his side. "What's happening?"

"What's happening, Dante, is that you've been given a gift. This is your opportunity to see the world as you think you see it, as if your melancholic gloom were an actuality. Your soul is tormented, Dante. It aches. I look at you and I see pain emanating from you like mist from the moors. It's a misguided and misplaced pain, one you've neither responsibility nor authority to bear."

"I don't understand."

"You will, in time. But for now, Dante, this is how you will see. This is how you will experience your life, as if the darkness and sorrow you hold inside has escaped and covered everything you see, everything you touch, everything you feel. Vibrancy is gone, because you have none. Happiness has evacuated your heart, and true emotion has gone dormant. For the time being, all is as you feel."

"Why?" Dante asked, effusing his lack of comprehension.

"That, you will have to learn for yourself. I am here to guide you, not teach you." Suddenly Dante felt light headed and sat back down on the sofa. Virgil sat to his right, crossed his legs, and placed his hands in his lap. "You may ask me questions, though I may not always be permitted to answer. Though, I suspect, things will grow clearer quickly. For your sake, I hope they do."

"What do you mean by that?" Dante asked, startled by the foreboding in the creature's words.

Virgil simply nodded downward towards the coffee table. Dante turned his attention and gasped. The pills, and the majority of the whiskey in the glass, were gone. Virgil let the realization of what Dante had done sink into the man's mind before rising and offering his hand. "Come on. It's time to go and experience life as you perceive it. We can deal with that later, if necessary."

Dante felt ill, and terrified. Without another word spoken between them, Dante took Virgil's hand, rose, and followed the amicable demon to the door.

© 2014 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.