The Sound of Blue

One

I open my eyes.

At least, I think I did. In reality, its hard to tell. I know my eyelids have snapped up, can feel the sensation of cold air on my damp eyes, but everything is a dim blur of light and dark, like bright sunlight filtering through your eyelids on a summer day. I rub my eyes as my heart races. Gradually, the world comes into sharper focus and my breathing slows. Of course, the term sharper is very generous here. I can now make out the vaguely rectangular blob across the room that I know to be my dresser. I fumble on the bedside table for my glasses until my fingers connect with thick, cold glass. Quickly, I shove them onto my face and look over at the alarm clock the table. It's green numbers are visible now, distinct and separate. I mutter a silent thanks for glasses and then realize what time it is. 5:59, exactly a minute before my alarm would go off. I curse and roll out of bed.

Getting dressed is never an issue for me anymore. All I have are black and white t-shirts and blue jeans, with a few flannel shirts if I'm cold. I'm not goth or anything, I just like life to be as simple as possible in the mornings. All of my socks are white, so I don't have to worry about them matching. One less thing to worry about, exactly the way I like it. It's good this way, I don't even need to look at what I'm wearing. It's good because one day, soon, I won't be able to see at all.

I grab my shoes and backpack as I leave my room at a brisk walk. Even then,  I nearly trip over my own feet as I cross the threshold, and my glasses slide dangerously close to the end of my nose.  Hurriedly pushing them back up, I hurry down the hall and into the kitchen.

My parents are already in kitchen. My mother sits at the table, primly dressed as always, her long, dark hair pulled back neatly at the base of her neck. She reads a newspaper, silently mouthing the words to herself as she goes. My father is hunched over the stove, cooking something in a small pan. Probably eggs. I don't look too closely. I assume that in most families, the reverse would be true, though I can't really say for sure, because I've only ever been a part of my own family. But the truth of the matter is that my mother can't cook, neither can I if we're being honest here. I like it okay, I just suck at it. So mom goes to the office every morning, and dad stays home and takes care of the house. They like it this way. My grandparents call it blasphemy, but I say that what works, works.

Immediately, I shuffle over to my father and hug him, burying my face in his shoulder. He returns the hug with one arm, the other is occupied with the pan. I breathe in the mild, earthy scent of wet clay, always there, no matter how hard he tries to wash it off. Then I go to sit next to my mom at the table. I lay my head sleepily on her shoulder and begin reading over her shoulder, some dry article about stocks. She rests her head briefly atop mine and then returns to her article. Most kids my age don't like their parents much, I don't understand why that is. Mine have never done anything but love me, how can I not love them back?

after a few minutes, I pull my bag onto my lap and begin to sort through the contents, making sure everything is in its proper place. I'm not sure why it wouldn't be, but one can never be too careful. It's all there, same as every morning. A random assortment of binders and folders, a couple of stray notebooks, a pencil case, a sketchbook. The bottom is littered with errant papers and pens. I zip the bag back up with a small sigh of relief and then lean forward to rest my head on my hands. My hair falls over my eyes, a curtain of brown so dark, it verges on black. In inherited that much from my mother. The rest of me is my dad, thickset, round face, serious brown eyes. Mom calls me sturdily built, I beg to differ.

once I'm slightly more awake, I get up and pour myself a bowl of cereal. Full disclosure, I hate cereal. In theory, it's not so bad, but in practice it's just a weird wheat soup in cold broth, and the bits get all soggy and the crumbs that sink to the bottom, ugh, don't even get me started on the crumbs. Regardless, cereal is better than starvation. I choke it down. By now I'm running late for the bus, so I snatch up my bag and rush to the door, calling a quick bye over my shoulder.

"Vi!" Calls mom. I keep running. "Octavia!"

I turn around.

"Don't forget you have a doctors appointment after school."

I nod and exit the house, making it to the corner just as the bus pulls up. The bus ride is quiet, everyone's too tired to talk much. That's fine with me, I don't like talking that much anyway, especially not to virtual strangers. I sit alone near the back, listening to music. I used to have friends in middle school that rode the bus with me, but they moved to different parts of the city and took different buses to school. I still saw them, I just didn't get to travel with them. I was okay with that though, I was okay with most things. I leaned my head back on the seat and allowed myself to enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face. I had enough.