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The sky was still painted in shadows of darkness when Joseph wakes, blinking awake his straining eye as the only light that shined through his windows were nothing but reflections from the moon and the stars sprinkled with it. Silver slithers tickled at his eyelid like feathers ruffling against the tip of his nose.
His body, aching for some odd reason—perhaps he slept strangely or something—protested his abrupt movements as he sat upright. His head was the problem that threatened to give him that annoying morning headache if he stayed in bed any longer. Joseph creeped towards his bathroom, groaning under his breath when the bright florescent lighting burst through the darkness in a blinding sweep. He looked upon himself in the mirror, staring deep into his only eye, a shallow whirl pool of brown that lay empty and almost lifeless. His other eye, sewn indefinitely shut had healed well. Aside from the obvious slit from where his eyeball used to be, he could barely tell where the scar tissue took over and where the remnants of his original appearance began.
Joseph used to think he was handsome. His mother thought so, the aunties and grandmas thought so, the girls he would meet in his late night escapades thought so too. Probably not anymore, however.
He was never one to fuss over looks and aesthetics but each waking morning since the incident, it has gotten harder and harder to even look at himself in the mirror. A monster, he believes. One-eyed and mangled. His injury is nothing but a reminder of his consequences and he could do nothing but serve it for the rest of his life.
Punching his own reflection and cracking the mirror into dozens of pieces was option that serged through his fists and down to the knuckles that turned white at the pressure. He didn't have it in him to actually do it.
Joseph was not religious but at times he would pray for things to go back to how they were before. Before he stole Juliette's book, before the incident, before girls even stepped foot into Voltaire High, before his gaze even met with Juliette Bellemare's. Because then, and maybe then he would still have his left eye and didn't have to worry about what an annoying girl with a love for reading would care about his appearance.
He lets out a sigh, finally breaking his burning gaze from his reflection and grabbed his toothbrush. As he brushed his teeth, distracted and half-assed, did his mind linger back to the day prior in the courtyard. He could still feel the touch of Juliette's hand pressed against his chest, burning fire yet freezing cold to the touch. The feeling lingered the same way the scent of vanilla and gourmand took over his senses when her the top of her head was just a mere lean away.
