“How about now?”
Shawn squinted. “Um... I'm getting... beige. No... no, more like a... taupe?”
“Shawn...”
His father hadn't put a great deal of energy into his exasperation. In fact, he likely hadn't even rolled his eyes. If anything, he'd just sounded bored. Well, bored or tired; which was hard to determine without seeing his face.
And that was essentially, basically, exactly the problem.
There was a squeak – rubber sole on tile – and Shawn felt fingertips push gently against his jaw as his face was tilted up. He hoped nobody saw his flinch – quickly disguised by a shoulder twist. There was the slightest click to his right.
“Hmm...” Air and the acid sour odor of vending machine coffee flushed across his nose. The stink he could manage, but the weird baby softness of fingertips tapping across his cheekbone was edging over the creepy line that hovered somewhere between Tiny Tim and Lyle Lovett.
“Well?” Henry was still sticking to one word commentary it seemed. At least, this time, Shawn wasn't the one expected to explain himself.
More rubber squeaking as Gropey turned to give Henry a look that perfectly blended reproach and exasperation. Dad might have an advantage on any given day on any average street but this was Belic's house and if a throw down was in order, Shawn was certain the old doc could take...
The fingertips scurried over his opposite cheek and there was no way to disguise his flinch this time. Okay so maybe the doc wasn't giving Henry a western stare down. Which he'd have known if he could actually see. Of course, if he could see, he wouldn't be wincing from the clammy digits pushing and pulling his face – as if a different angle would somehow magically give him his sight.
The squishy hands finally let him go and Shawn couldn't help but rub his cheek against his shoulder. He hoped it was subtle. Actually he didn't care if it was subtle – he had the damp residue of Doctor Baby Hands on his face for the love of David Bowie.
His father moved closer to his left side. The reek of Stetson and fishy sweat was unmistakable. “One of Shawn's physical therapists thought it might be something called Riddich Phenomenon...”
“Woooah... dad...” Shawn lifted a finger to halt the big word flood from exploding past the levee and further destroying the brutally abused curvature of his brain. “You're saying I can see in the dark?”
“Shawn, that would be Riddik Phenomenon.” Gus on his right – his voice giving direction and a jump through the skin that thankfully Shawn managed to keep to himself. He covered it by snatching his hand towards the rustle of neatly pressed shirt and slacks, managing by luck to grip an earlobe. Immediately his fingers were smacked away.
“Dude, your fingers are clammy!”
Shawn could hear frantic activity followed by the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol as his best buddy in the universe made hasty movements to clean the Shawn cooties from his skin. Well that was slightly offensive. “Seriously, man? I'm pretty sure I don't have rotor rooter virus.”
“It's Rotavirus and I know you know that!”
“I know you know that!” Shawn parroted in a mocking nasal. Swiping out again, he struck another hit against meaty buttocks. However, his building whoop of victory was cut short when the yelp that emerged had the distinct white man tone of his clutchy physician.
“Shawn!” His dad grabbed his wrist to prevent further molesting.
“Oops?” Heat skimmed up the back of his neck.
YOU ARE READING
Paint it Black
Hayran Kurgu"I want you to imagine a bullet coming from that gun, penetrating your skin, and lodging in your brain. You know how easy that would be for me?" But Shawn doesn't have to imagine it... because he's about to experience it.
