Terror is Pink

“Has anyone heard from Jonah recently?” her friend asks during dinner, between multiple rounds of drinks, appetizers and entrees. They’re celebrating her and it’s been a good night, filled with laughter and support. The question barely registers amid the ruckus but enough people hear it to answer absentmindedly.

None of them have heard from Jonah.

Some are concerned and make vague promises to reach out again, already moving onto the next conversation. Someone makes a quick remark about going over to his place if he doesn’t respond but that’s where the concern and plans end. They move onto the next topic and dig into their food.

—

She comes in from her night out and her foot catches a bit on the entryway runner, the many well wishing cards in her hands flying onto the floor as she does a little hop to catch her balance.

“Damn it.” she mutters, not really upset, not really angry because it’s a minor nuisance and she had such a good time with her friends, celebrating her new job, that it feels like nothing could dampen her mood. She turns on the lights, collects the cards that are scattered all over the small apartment floor and throws her things on the couch.

As she steps into her bathroom she notices something pink poking out between the door and bathmat. It’s another card, but one she doesn’t remember reading. She can’t remember who gave it to her and the bright pink card with the words "Live Laugh Love" emblazoned on the front does not look familiar at all. There is nothing written in it besides the template "Shine Bright Everyday" printed in the middle of the page and she wonders if one of her friends accidentally bought an envelope with an extra card inside. A card like this is the farthest from what her friends would ever give her as a sign of their love and support: a super pink card with a pointless and overdone inspirational quote.

She shrugs it off as either a mistake or an ironic joke they forgot to tell her about and places the card on the sink as she goes through her nightly routine. But every few seconds she catches sight of the card and it makes her chuckle. Those words, Live Laugh Love… they’re so universal that they’re almost pointless. When you think about it they don’t really mean anything. Yes, she thinks, everyone should strive to live, laugh and love, that’s a reasonable goal.

“Live, Laugh, Love.” she whispers to herself in the bathroom mirror, shaking her head. The phrase has become such a mantra for a certain demographic when they’re trying to glaze over real societal issues and such an appeasement technique that she can’t take anyone seriously who uses it without any irony. There's a very specific type of person, with a very specific look that relies on that phrase . “Live, Laugh, Love.” she chuckles again as she diligently spreads lotion on her face.

BAM!

The toothbrush holder clatters onto the floor as if someone swiped at it and she startles, jumping away from the sink at the sound. “Jesus, that scared me.” her hand flies to her chest and she looks at the sink trying to determine how she caught the holder and managed to get it to tumble over. Exhaling a long breath, she bends over to pick up her things for the second time that night and thinks about how she needs to calm down and stop dropping stuff. When she’s done collecting everything, she leans on the sink and sarcastically announces to her own reflection: “Maybe I should Live, Laugh, Love more.”

The lights in the bathroom flicker and the room goes completely dark. The few seconds of darkness feel like an eternity as she scrambles to understand what’s going on. The lights come back on in full force, brighter and stronger than before, casting an odd and eerie pink glow she does not recognize. She spins around the bathroom, taking in the hue she’s never seen in her apartment and how it makes it look like she lives in a ball of cotton candy. When she lands back on her reflection, for a moment she thinks she can’t see clearly and tries to blink away the image in front of her.

Staring back at her is not her face.

Instead of recoiling, her instinct is to lurch forward and reach for the mirror. She needs to make sure she's not looking at a window through which some stranger’s face is leering at her. Her hands touch the cold surface of the solid glass, now reflecting all the pink hues, and she shakes it for good measure.

The woman in front of her is blonde, with straight hair and piercing blue eyes. Gone is the brown of her own skin, gone are her dark brown eyes and curly hair. The face in the reflection is white.

She looks down at her hands and arms, rolls up her sleeves, lifts her shirt and all she sees is white, white, white. Frantically, she grabs for the card still sitting on the corner of the sink, ominously cheery and optimistic, almost mocking her as she lifts it in horror with shaking hands.

She stares at those words and then looks at herself again, unfamiliar blue eyes widening in shock.

“Live, Laugh, Love.” she breathes in terror.