A Touch of Grey

Alex Merola about 2,000 words

270 Callahan Road

41472

(207) 573-6465

amerola@gmail.com

A TOUCH OF GREY

By Alex Merola

A Touch of Grey

The book had been open, face down, since 3:00 AM—the only way she could find the shore of sleep these days was to read until her eyes burned. Maya reached out a thin hand and closed it. The cover, a stark image of a bell jar, seemed to mock her. It was time for school.

I watched her from the kitchen, my hand gripping a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold. I am a man of few words, a single father trying to raise a daughter who seems determined to evaporate. She moved through the hallway like a ghost in heavy armor. She pulled on her boots, snapped the buttons on her jeans—which hung loosely off her hips despite being the smallest size available—and donned a t-shirt that read "Rage Against the Machine."

Over it, she wore her blue jean jacket. On the back was a hand-sewn Grateful Dead patch: a rat leaning against a wharf pilings, with the words "Wharf Rat" scrolling beneath. To most, it was just vintage flair. To me, it was a reminder of the song’s protagonist, August West—a man lost in the shadows, hoping to "get up and fly away."

Maya strapped on her book bag, the weight of it causing her shoulders to hunch, and grabbed an umbrella. She didn't say goodbye. She just stepped out into the gray, relentless rain.

Step. Step. Step. Maya counted the rhythm of her boots against the pavement. Twenty-four steps to the corner. If I keep my pace, I’ll burn twelve calories before the bus arrives. The rain was a cold, invasive mist that felt like it was trying to dissolve her. She welcomed it. The

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chill was a sharp reminder that she was still there, a physical entity in a world that felt increasingly like a fever dream. Her mind was a whirlwind of headlines: the rising sea levels, the systematic brutality of the police, the erasure of women’s rights. Every injustice felt like a stone she had to carry in her pocket.

How can I eat, she thought, her stomach twisting in a familiar, hollow ache, when the world is starving for justice? If I take up less space, maybe there’s more room for the things that matter. It was a daily battle: the scales, the mirror, the terrifying, intoxicating triumph of seeing the numbers dip below 100. At 98 pounds, she felt like a hollowed-out reed—fragile, yet capable of making a high, piercing sound if the wind blew hard enough.

She stood at the corner, the "Wharf Rat" on her back, soaking up the dampness. A boy was already there, leaning against a lamppost. He didn't go to her school; he took the cross-town bus to the vocational tech center. His name was Julian. He wore a patched-up army jacket and looked like he understood the weight of a heavy sky.

"You’re shivering, Maya," he said, his voice low.

"I’m fine. It’s just the rain," she replied, her voice sounding thin and metallic.

Julian looked at her "Wharf Rat" patch and then at her face. He was one of the few who saw her—not just the activist, but the girl disappearing inside the jacket. "August West thought

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he could fly away by staying down in the gutter," Julian murmured. "But you can’t fight a revolution if you don’t have the energy to hold the sign, Maya."

"I’m doing what I have to do," she snapped, her warrior persona flaring up. "Equality, justice... they don't wait for people to feel 'well'."

"Shadows don't win revolutions," Julian said gently as his bus pulled up. "They just disappear when the light gets too bright."

The school bus arrived minutes later, a yellow cage that smelled of wet wool and teenage apathy. When it dropped her off at the high school, the first thing Maya saw was a black pickup truck parked defiantly in the front lot.

Strung across the back window was a Confederate flag.

The sight of it hit her like a physical blow. It was the embodiment of everything she fought against—racism, hate, the stubborn refusal of the world to move toward the light. In that moment, the "Rage" on her shirt wasn't just a band name; it was an instruction.

She reached into her pocket and found her lighter. Her fingers were white and trembling, not from fear, but from a sudden, violent clarity. She didn't think about the cameras or the expulsion policy. She only thought about the darkness that flag represented.

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She reached over the truck bed. The flame flickered, fought the rain, and then caught the corner of the nylon. For a few seconds, the fire was a brilliant, defiant orange against the gray morning. Maya felt a surge of warmth—real, bone-deep warmth—as the symbol of hate shriveled into black smoke.

She was still watching the embers when the principal’s hand gripped her shoulder.

The call came at 10:15 AM.

I drove to the school in a daze. When I walked into the office, Maya looked smaller than ever, dwarfed by the heavy wooden chair. She was expelled, effective immediately. Arson. Destruction of property.

"She has to go, David," the principal said, his voice filled with a weary kind of pity.

I didn't say a word until we got home. I followed her up to her room, where she collapsed onto her bed, still wearing the damp "Wharf Rat" jacket. I looked at her nightstand and saw the book she had been reading: The Bell Jar.

I picked it up. I knew this book. I knew the story of a woman who felt trapped under a glass dome, breathing her own sour air. I looked at Maya, my beautiful, brilliant, starving daughter, and realized she had built her own jar out of the world’s injustices.

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"I did it because it was right, Dad," she whispered into her pillow. "Someone had to do something."

"I know, Maya," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. I reached out and traced the "Wharf Rat" patch on her back. "But Julian was right. You’re turning into a shadow. And I can’t lose you to the shadows."

I leaned closer, my voice cracking. "I know that the life you're livin's no good, Maya. But you won't fly away by disappearing. You’ll fly away by getting strong enough to carry the light."

She finally looked at me, and for the first time in months, the "warrior" was gone. There was only a tired, hungry girl who was scared of her own reflection.

"I'm tired of being cold, Dad," she sobbed.

"I know," I said, pulling her into my arms. She felt like a bundle of dry sticks, so fragile that I was afraid I’d break her just by holding her. "We're calling the clinic. Today. No more battles alone."

The rain continued to lash against the window, but inside the room, the silence had changed. The book was closed. The fire was out. And for the first time, we weren't just fighting the world—we were fighting for her.

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The weeks that followed the expulsion were a blur of sterile waiting rooms, the smell of essential oils, and the soft, persistent voice of Dr. Aris.

The recovery clinic wasn't a prison, though to Maya, it felt like one at first. It was a place where "warrior" wasn't defined by how much of the world’s pain you could absorb, but by how much of your own life you were willing to reclaim.

"You feel like eating is a betrayal of the cause," Dr. Aris said during their fourth week. She didn't look like a therapist; she looked like someone who had walked through her own fires.

Maya sat on the velvet sofa, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her "Rage" shirt. She had gained four pounds. To her, it felt like forty. "The world is literally starving, Dr. Aris. People are fighting for their lives against systems that want to crush them. My hunger... it felt like a protest. A way to be as hollow as the promises the government makes."

"But a hollow instrument can’t play a song," Aris countered gently. "You burned that flag because you had a spark of life left in you. If you go out entirely, the hate wins by default. Recovery isn't about becoming 'docile' or 'compliant' with a broken system. It’s about fueling the machine so you can actually fight it."

Maya looked at the "Wharf Rat" patch on her jacket, which sat on the chair beside her. She thought about Julian’s words. Shadows don’t win revolutions. ---

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By the eighth week, I started seeing the girl I thought I’d lost.

It was in the way she reached for a piece of fruit without calculating the air-miles of its existence first. It was the return of the color to her ears when she got excited about a podcast. She was still Maya—still fierce, still reading radical manifestos, still angry about the climate—but she was no longer translucent.

She had finished her alternative school modules with honors. To celebrate, I decided to throw a small "graduation" party. No huge crowds, just a few people who had seen her through the fog.

The living room was filled with the warm, amber glow of floor lamps and the crackle of a vinyl record. I’d cleared away the coffee table to make room for a spread of food that made my heart race with a mixture of pride and anxiety: hummus, pita, fresh grapes, and a homemade vegan lasagna Maya had actually helped me prep.

Julian (or "Julius," as his tech-school friends called him) arrived first. He looked less like a shadow himself today, wearing a clean flannel shirt and carrying a stack of old records. Two of Maya’s friends from the local activism group joined them, their conversation quickly turning to the upcoming local elections.

"Put on American Beauty," Maya suggested, her voice steadier than I’d heard it in a year.

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As the opening notes of "Box of Rain" filled the room, the tension in my chest began to loosen. I watched from the kitchen as they sang along.

“Believe it if you need it, or leave it if you dare...”

They ate. Maya sat on the floor with Julius, a small plate of lasagna in her lap. I watched her take a bite. Then another. She was talking, laughing—really laughing—at something Julius said about a broken radiator at the tech school.

For a moment, the "Bell Jar" felt like it had been lifted and shattered. The room was full of music, the smell of garlic, and the sound of my daughter’s voice. I felt a stinging behind my eyes. This was the win. This was the revolution.

The party wound down as the record hit the run-out groove, the rhythmic thump-thump of the needle the only sound left.

"That was actually... really good, Dad," Maya said, standing up. She looked at the empty plate on the floor. Her expression shifted for a fraction of a second—a shadow crossing a sunlit field. The "Wharf Rat" on her back seemed to lean into the darkness of the hallway.

"I'm glad, honey," I said, trying to keep my voice casual, trying not to show how much I was hovering.

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"I'm just going to go wash up," she said, gesturing toward the bathroom. "I'll be right back to help with the dishes."

"Sure. Take your time."

I stood in the kitchen, a half-dried plate in my hand. I heard her footsteps on the linoleum. I heard the bathroom door close.

Click.

The lock turned.

I stood perfectly still, the dish towel frozen in my grip. I waited for the sound of the faucet. I waited for the sound of the fan. I waited for the silence to be broken by something—anything—that would tell me if the warrior was still standing, or if the ghost had come back to claim her.

In the living room, Julius started the record over. The lyrics of "Wharf Rat" began to drift through the house…

"I'll get up and fly away... fly away..."