This is a lot darker than things I normally write, but it's one of my favourite endings I've written. Of course, I don't write that many endings. The title sucks. Teresa was named after miguided innocence, because that's what the name always seems to mean to me, for some reason. reviews are always appreciated.

WARNING! I bag on religion (in general) here. There's also very mild femmeslash and mentions of rape/abuse. Reading this is your own choice, do so at your own discretion.

Teresa gently fisted her hand around the water flowing from the dully metallic faucet as if to strangle it, stoically.

The water was bright yellow because the whole world was. It was just varying degrees of yellow, because it was Tuesday. It was always yellow on Tuesday, it had been since she turned around her life, since she turned to hIm and the Light.

It was green on Wednesday, blue on Thursday, and purple on Fridays. Saturdays, the Holy days, were blocked out. Black. Mondays were red and Tuesdays were orange.

Green came after yellow, she knew it instinctively. It had been drilled in her mind since before she thought, before she even has heard of the Light or knew hIm. Two plus two is four. I before E except after C. Or when saying 'ay' as in "neighbour" and "weigh". It was the purest day of the week for her. Green was Eden's colour, when she thought Eden might be there. When she thought of life, on Wednesday, even though it sometimes made her sick.

The blue always seemed like an aftermath. Blue on her body and blue on her mind. Blue on the sky and blue on the sea. She wasn't sad, because those with hIm were never sad. If she wasn't with him, if she wasn't with life, she would remember Thursday as depression. She would recall the tears as bad.

The purple of Fridays seemed to be a vague continuation of blue. They often went quickly with preparations for the Holy day. She would wake up late and got to bed early; it was better that way. She generally felt the soreness just ending that day, just fading into scars she would, inevitably, forget about. She went to bed earlier than she normally did and slept in more. She forgot about her scars because she forgot. Where was she? It was inevitable.

Black days were pure darkness. Deaf, blind, mute, dumb darkness. Occasionally, she'd escape the oblivion and hear panting and feel a horrid pain deep inside her, but then she would call for the nothing. She would want to forget, for once.

She would awaken to red on her sheets, Sunday. Everything was red: love, anger, compassion, debt. She knew that hIs light made Mondays red; she knew that as long as she was with hIm, red would come after black.

Mondays she liked best. Because they were forgiving, apologetic. A tangy sweet orange liquid would pour down her throat and make her remember a world she loved more, but not more than she said she loved hIm and the Light. She always told hIm she loved hIm more. Mondays were a more Wednesday world, but sweeter, less bitter and crunchy. Less fresh much more upbeat.

She continued to squeeze the yellow water. In the back of her mind, she knew it wasn't right, she suspected none of it was right. She knew the water made her forget things she shouldn't, couldn't if she wanted the Light to leave her alone and let her feel happiness.

but they made her forget life before Light and hIm and the weekly colours and how everything was a cycle with no variation just a wheel spinning with no halts or bumps or anything just continuity until she felt like she might barf which she often did on yellow days or maybe green ones because she might be allergic but she didn't know what that meant because the black drove her into oblivion and nothing ever stopped so she just wanted to end the sentence and lose her light and him and find ultimate blackness

It was almost like she could remember strangling, that it killed, like she wanted to kill the water.

Then she heard him come in. His starlight blue eyes and wispy blonde hair that made hIm look five years younger, made hIm look only five years older than her. He had a pale complexion and cheeks blushed from an outer chill that she might recognise if she ever followed beyond the flexing panel. Door. She remembered doors when she didn't drink the water sometimes. But, He was coming with his light so she sipped some water before she might think more because thinking was wrong, if you wanted light you shouldn't think.

But before the water could touch her lips, she saw a girl with wispy brown hair. She knew it was a girl because the hair was long, and her chest puffed out like hers, and she had different hips from boys, and a skirt. She remembered that that meant someone was a girl. She remembered what it was like for a wheel to stop spinning.

Though sometimes, He pretended to have a puffy chest or coloured hIs face like girls, except Teresa, were supposed to and, sometimes, He wore skirts because the Light told hIm to. She liked it better because she liked girls better and she didn't mind it as much when there was blackness on those day where He wore a skirt.

So the brunette quickly moved to the girl, who was now a woman, in an orange dress and touched their lips together, recalling distant memories. She realised that the Light wasn't worth the pain because there were better things to die for, and was forever grateful that her cycles stopped, because the world kept on turning anyway.