The room smelt dust, the table felt dust, and the four chairs seemed to have remained tucked-in for centuries -- except for one.
The books were different, they felt different and were nameless. They were in order, neatly and surprisingly.
They started off an ugly shade of red and dissolved into different colors only to end in beige. That was pretty much all there is to notice.
He walked alongside the single row and stopped a little past midway. Reaching for the white book of last night's and noticing yet another strange phenomenon that he'd found in every other book in this room. The room he's always thought has been a women's washroom he shouldn't -and was thankful- give much attention to. Attention being cleaning.
Dots.
Raised ones.
--
He was pleased like no other second week because it was his turn to clean up. He finished up in fourty minutes, exhausted. But he still had every little intention to clean every inch behind the cornered door -the world that was a corner itself.
He noticed a cobweb at the upper left corner of the burnt-red window.
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Author's note: I know, I know, it's quite confusing, but be patient please.
YOU ARE READING
The Color Deaf
RandomA story about two, whose only way to communicate was touch. Marsia enjoyed letting someone with stained canvases and thick brushes draw in front of her in silence, even though the two of them weren't 'good' when it came to colors. He'd color the gr...
