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He never saw in color. Not since the day he came into this world, screaming his lungs out with his little fists balled up as he got placed in his mother's shaking arms.
She cried, not out of happiness, but out of sadness; because she knew what his world would be like.
He lives as normally as all of us, in retrospect. Sure, if you told him the sky is blue, he'd agree. Not because of obvious knowledge, though. He'd simply nod because that's what he's been told his whole life.
Just because he doesn't know what the color blue even looks like, doesn't mean everyone else around him is lying. Right?
He wakes up everyday and sees everything on a grey scale. Some figures are darker, some are lighter. He's decided the moon must be bright, since the dark night sits as such a contrast against it. Stars must be the same color as well.
And the sun glows, so the sky must be blue if such a bright ball of fire almost blends in with it, right?
He doesn't really have any problems, not any that create a hassle for him in everyday life. Sure, maybe Mrs. Miller down the street makes fun of him whenever he steps out wearing a brightly colored, mismatched ensamble; but he just laughs along with her.
The only time it really affected him was during the holidays. He doesn't go to any parties anymore, not since last year. He would sit on the damp grass during early July and watch fireworks turn the dark sky ablaze.
He'd hear everyone around him cheer and yell and scream with joy as the humidity created a sticky canvas for his hair to stick to against his cheek; and he'd sit with his elbows on his knees wondering what color the sky was erupting into.
Blue, red, orange, violet. These were just words to him. Nothing more than syllables and consanants forged together to create another term that he'd read about in the dictionary when he was in middle school.
It has caused a few problems in his love life, though. He remembers a year ago, the very last time he went to a party in fact, and he'd met a snarky, snobby young woman by the name of Justina. She was tall, her lips painted dark and her heels so high she looked as if she might break an ankle.
He had gotten so drunk he couldn't even talk without hiccuping, let alone form coherent sentences.
He and Justina had talked, she was slightly less drunk but still buzzed enough to where her skin grew hot and underwear grew sticky when she was around the six foot four, green eyed Scandinavian.
They'd gone upstairs, she'd peeled her dress off like she was some sort of exotic fruit waiting to be tasted on the tip of his tongue, juices savored and swallowed.
But as she sat, legs open and spread out like pages of a book waiting to be read and devoured, she scowled up at him, lips turned downwards.
He was confused, since he had barely even spoken, cock pumping full of blood and swelling in his jeans. He'd seen her eyeing him and licking her plump lips like she was starving, What had he done wrong?
