blue

I

I was starting my first day at a new school today.

I was utterly terrified to say the least. I looked around my room to see if anything had changed since I went to bed without colour last night.

As expected, it was all the same. No colour, no life. Only shades of black, grey, and white. This was my daily routine. Waking up, and immediately after having reality hit me and hoping it would change; hoping I could see at least a new shade of black.

People tell me I have beautiful blonde hair but as I looked in the mirror, all I saw was grey curls covering my pale white face. My eyes were green to people who can see beautiful things called colours, but to me they were black. I sighed, tucking my hair around my ear. As I turned around, I took one last glance at myself in the mirror before continuing to walk away. I would never be pleased with what reflection looked back at me.

I had been fully diagnosed with achromatopsia when I was five years old, causing me to only see in black, white, and ugly shades of grey. My life was as boring as a black and white movie; because that's exactly what it was. People treated me as a new species, or not as a person at all when I told them about my condition. They were interested, yet disgusted at the same time. Achromatopsia can be inherited, or caused by injury.

Unfortunately, mine was caused by injury. An injury that was not an accident. My dad was abusive to us while I was growing up, and my mom couldn't find the strength to leave him and wouldn't be able to support me if we left. I was an only child, so her love was unconditionally put into me and only me, since she didn't have my dad to give it to. When I was nine, he sent my mother to the hospital after a scarring night full of smashed dishes, yelling, and a shaking, crying girl in the corner watching it all.

That girl was me, Melia. As he threw one of my mom's china glasses, it whipped past her at lightening speed and straight into my eye. Shards of glass flew into my right eye, too. I ended up passing out from blood loss in my head but thankfully, was able to recover.

Because my mom had to tell the doctors what happened to me as well as her in order to get help, she fully confessed and John was sent to jail. I don't like calling him my dad because he was nothing like a dad should be. A real dad loves you; John did not. I still get flashbacks of the fights and anger released from him every night and I still have scars on my lower back from where he scratched me and memories of the purple bruises from where he beat me.

My flashbacks tend to happen when I'm trying to forget the world and drift to sleep, and moments after falling asleep I wake up screaming, forgetting that it's not real. My mom comes in and tries to ask what my dream was about, but I didn't want to unbury those painful memories from the depths of her mind.

It was just my mom and I from there. It was hard financially and emotionally. She always had to work double shifts and night shifts as a waitress at the pizzeria in London to get me at least one meal on the table each day. This caused a lot of missed dinners with me and a lot of mood swings from her being overtired.

When she yelled at me for being home late or not doing the dishes I tried to not let it bother me because she was under stressful circumstances, but it often got to me and I lay on my back, wet tears running down my cheek as I questioned how I had got into this situation and what I had done to disappoint her. My mom was all I had, so disappointing her made me feel worthless. I had no friends because of how consistently I change schools due to bullying because of my condition. Not being able to see colour doesn't only bring sadness to my life, it  brings loneliness. I was hoping this school year would be better, but I wasn't stupid and didn't let my hopes raise too high.

I began putting my blonde, short hair into a tight ponytail and getting ready for school. Getting dressed was always a challenge, considering I can't see colour which makes matching almost impossible. Therefore, I made sure almost all of my wardrobe was made-up of colours I can see: blacks and whites. I even applied black lipstick. I bought it, not realizing it was really black but never changed to a colour. Black was my favourite shade, after all.

"Melia?" my mom questioned whether or not I was ready for school from downstairs. I was a senior in high school, and couldn't be more excited for the final semester to end, even if it meant being alone all summer. I like being alone; it allows my mind to wander as far as it would like, and explore the depths of the universe. I am a book nerd, and my favourite afternoons are the ones unplanned that I am  able to lay in bed with the only sound being the crackling fire from the living room beside my bedroom.

Based on the way I walked down the stairs and didn't even say hello to my mom, she noticed I was in a bad mood straight away. I'm always in a bad mood, though, so she didn't ask  why or try to console me. Either she was afraid, or she just didn't care. Some days I need someone to ask me if I'm okay, and I wish she would have. It's not my fault that she can't read my mind and has no idea how depressed I am. She blames it on hormones, when it was nothing like that. She only forces me to go to the high school counsellor every Friday and assumed it was benefiting me. It only made matters worse, because the counsellors don't understand me and it makes me even more hopeless. The doctor's don't even understand me for god's sake. I was a question waiting for an answer; not a person.

I proceeded to ignore my mom as she asked me how my day was. I devoured a bagel and ran out the door, dreading school but wanting to abandon the uncomfortable atmosphere of my home.

When I got to school first period was hell, as expected. I didn't get one greeting or even a glance of eye contact from anyone. Not even my teachers. I had to leave my last school, and my school before that due to everyone's lack of understanding and respect because of my condition. My predictions were that this school wasn't going to be much better. So far, they were correct.

I walked into my last class of the day; English. Not after bumping into at least five people. The room was a mopy grey, and it most definitely set the mood for this class. I despised English. The teacher of the class was a male, with dark brown hair and a fringe that made him look sixteen and like he should be famous on Myspace.

At the end of English, I stumbled out of the classroom and into the noise filled, black and white hall. I walked to the entrance to leave with my head down. Focused on making it out alive, I sped walked to the entrance and walked home in the dreary rain, splashing puddles up to my ankles as I stepped.

I was so rushed and in a bad mood from my day at school that I didn't even look up as I walked to my bus stop.

"Watch where you're going, freak!"

I looked up, startled out of my daze. In front of me was a tall, buff male who looked about my age. He had dark black hair and a pale white face. Trying not to stare, I got glimpses of his detailed neck tattoos. That must have hurt, I thought to myself.

I quietly apologized, and he heard me. He told me to stay out of his way and then left, leaving me confused in the drizzling rain.