I dreamt once that I would never have to see those colours again, the cold sanitary white, the icy royal blue, for all the years we were squashed by the Tsars, and the bloody crimson, for the communists that followed.
I regret that now. Not that I tried to fight for freedom, or persuaded others to fight with me, but how much I yearned to be free of colour. The Serbsky Institute for Psychiatric Expertise, where they are Fixing my hatred of those colours, is devoid of any hue but grey. The sky is grey, the floor is grey, my cell is grey, even the food is grey. I miss colours.
I was taken, dragged from my flat late one night by the collar of my flannel pyjamas. I was bundled into a van, tugged into a stark room. My head was roughly shaved; my skull thrust back, Adams apple protruding from my straining neck. My clothes were torn from me, and I was zipped into a grey jumpsuit, the cold metal biting at my pale flesh in the guards haste to be rid of me. They pushed me