The Color Of Her Eyes

Part I: Anomaly

Ever since I was little, all I could see is black and white.

I wasn't even sure what black and white were until I was old enough for customary therapy. That's when they explained to me what I see. The negative space, those you can't really see properly, like when you look inside a room with no lights on, those were black; and the really stark color, the ones I see when I look up in the sky in the morning and make me temporarily blind, that is white.

Still, therapists told me all about the 'other' colors. I was little then, so they just drilled into me what everything looks like, even if I don't really see it. The skies are blue, apples are red, school buses are yellow, trees are green. They told me I would understand all of this once I see colors, though I couldn't really empathize. It doesn't really matter to me if the trees are rainbow-colored, because everyday I wake up to blinding white.

This morning I have a severe headache, a nasty throbbing in the right side of my skull that won't go away. A brief flash of memory made me remember last night. I was with Eric, we were drinking a bit, and we had been hitting on a girl.

I made myself get up, focusing on my footing and stumbling to my medicine cabinet desperate for an aspirin; the size of Manhattan would probably do.

It had been a bad idea to drink last night since we have work the next day. I glanced at my clock and didn't like what I see. With almost Herculean effort, I managed to take a short bath, put my clothes on and match my socks; the most difficult part was tying my shoelaces. Then before I changed my mind, I hauled myself to the door; God knows how much I want to sleep.

I reminded myself to get coffee, and breakfast. The only edible things in my apartment are a bowl of apples, and bad milk in the fridge. The pain struck me again.

The moment I stepped on the hallway, I knew I was in for a shit day.

The air smelled faintly of alcohol. Our apartment building isn't new or expensive (this place is the cheapest apartment I could find), so the ventilation system isn't exactly top-notch; I remember once when some idiot peed on the wall somewhere, I knew because the whole building smelled it. However, the rooms are bordering on decent and somehow spacious, and the landlady, a woman about 75 years of age, sometimes forget to pick up the rent. So, win-win. Sort of.

I groaned internally, the smell of alcohol isn't appealing to me right now, already I can feel bile rising in my throat and I wondered if I threw up last night.

I took the elevator down. I started breathing through my mouth, which is a bad idea. When the doors opened, I was greeted by the sight of our landlady (speak of the devil), a small old woman who I never see without her hairnet and rollers on. She stood next to a large heap of dirty clothes, who turned out to be a man balled up and asleep.

I shouldn't have been surprised. There was never a day this particular man didn't go stumbling to the apartment stone-drunk. I averted my eyes and continued on my way, in case the landlady spotted me and ask me to help her.

She had her back to me and was telling him off, albeit with less intensity than I would have liked. She sounded like she was talking to a ten-year-old boy who broke a vase rather than to a forty-year-old drunk man who ruined everybody's morning.

"Third time this week, Miguel!" she flapped her hands around him, waking him up, "I got people down here and at the second floor complaining about the smell!" the man stirred somewhat, then I heard the jingle of keys.

I passed by quietly; the landlady apparently had her master key and was opening the door for the drunkard. I was already out of the building when I think I heard vomiting.