Painter Palette Traffic Jam

You look down the highway that yawns into the distance. It's packed with the blinking red brake lights of cars just like yours. 

12 miles to go. 35 minutes remaining. 

"So this really is adult life, huh?" you ask. 

"Is that really so bad?" says Blue. Her hair is dyed blue, fading to brown at the roots. She wears the same beat up, paint-stained denim overalls and wide smile she's worn and will wear every day, forever. She sits on the floor, cross legged, and bobs her head side to side occasionally. 

"This part isn't so great," says Red, leaning against the wall. She has curly red hair like yours, and wears a black leather jacket over a tank top and black jeans. She is tapping her foot incessantly, her arms crossed, impatience flowing out of every line of her posture. 

Blue's stupid grin doesn't falter. 

"Trust me, childhood was a lot worse," says the creature in the driver's seat. Like her name, her skin is gray. It's sallow, uneven, almost sickly. Her hair is long, straight, and black, hanging limply. Her most striking feature, though, are the dark portals she has in place of eyes, endless black pits that almost seem to pull you in. Currently, they're affixed with deathly focus on the road before her. When you look at her, the word zombie comes to mind. 

You take a moment to try and imagine what a carefree childhood might have been like. Everyone does, even the prim archivist standing in the corner. 

Blue gets what you think is the closest, which is only natural, you suppose. In some senses, she's the only one present who got to be a child. 

Brown, the archivist, sips her tea. "A pointless exercise," she says flatly. Her eyes glitter emerald green, an utterly inhuman thirst shining behind them. They bore into you with an intensity that makes you imagine your skin climbing off and dancing a little jig. 

The creature driving the car, exhales in frustration as another driver in front of her slams the brakes, forcing her to do the same. The pink backpack your mother got you tumbles out of the passenger seat.

You wonder if its contents are okay. You want to check on them. You want to check your phone too, the nasty little thing. But your zombie chauffeur won't move your shared eyes an inch. "Traffic isn't that slow, " she says. "Besides, you already killed me once." 

You laugh, heartily. It's good to be able to laugh about that. She doesn't, but she does smile, just a little. 

"Seriously though," you say, mirth fading. "Can you really enjoy this? Driving for hours? Day after day?" 

She eyes you with those two abysses in her face. Anhedonia is a symptom both of undeath and being Built Wrong, so she hasn't enjoyed much in her life, or her unlife. She has enjoyed more of it lately, though. Moments of laughter with those dear to her echo through her memory like glass bells. There were times when she thought she might never be able to laugh. 

"It doesn't really matter," she says, finally. She can see your deep weariness, your anxiety bubbling under the surface. She feels echoes of it, too. She is you, after all. 

"Do you want me to keep driving when we get home?" she asks. She isn't asking about the car. 

"I don't know," you respond. You look around the room. 

Red shrugs.

"I wanna play Elden Ring," Blue chimes in. 

"We could play together," says Gray. 

"I'd like th—" 

"We have a computer to operate on," the archivist interrupts. 

There is a collective sigh. Everyone forgot but her. 

"You'd be lost without me," she adds, smugly. She takes another sip of tea. (Does she ever run out?) 

"We know." says Red. "If only because you remind us at least three times a week." 

"I could probably do the computer," says Gray. 

She probably could, you think. But you also think you would do it better. It's not your computer to break.

You have the easiest time with tech of almost anyone here. So you take a deep breath. The archivist's piercing gaze points at you again. 

"I'll help," she says. Shocked sets of eyes look back at her. It's rare for her to step away from her labyrinth of filing cabinets, typewriters, and endlessly flowing ticker tape. 

"Ha. Just advice. Maybe some guidance in the hands," she adds. Shock recedes to mere surprise. 

But all you're thinking is 'Do I look that bad?' 

As if to answer, Brown strides gracefully across the room towards you, looking like she was born to wear her ornate, layered, ruffled dress. She's taller than you even without the heels, and she stiffly leans down and hugs you. She hugs like an ambassador in training practicing gestures from foreign lands, but you sag into it all the same. Tears come to your eyes, unbidden. 

"It can really be like this?" you ask, falteringly. 

"Every day of the rest of your life, if that's what you wish," she whispers.