Spectrum

1.1: Black

Pt. 1/10: Black

black

blak/

adjective

adjective: black; comparative adjective: blacker; superlative adjective: blackest;

of the very darkest color owing to the absence of or complete absorption of light; the opposite of white. "black smoke"

synonyms:

dark, pitch-black, jet-black, coal-black, ebony, sable, inky "a black horse"

antonyms:

white

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Darkness. Thats all the male can really see, if you can even consider what he does as 'seeing'. Thats all that fills his line of sight; utter blackness. However, of this he is unaware.

One would presume that he would be, but no one tells him that no one else only sees darkness. He has grown accustomed to not knowing whats in front of him, not knowing who put it there, or how they put it there. He has never known what he looks like, never seen the silky black hair that frames his sharp features, never gazed into his milky blue eyes, never seen the 'colorless' world around him.

The male's hands groped the bumps and edges around him as he felt the muscles in his torso contract; he sat up in the scratchy sheets of the bed he had slept in. He felt his eyes burn from lack of sleep, and his spine ache from the terrible mattress he had slept in. Stumbling over his own feet, he practically fell out of the cot as he found his balance. His thoughts were filled with dread, dread for the day to come, another day of blackness. The boy really wished he could learn how to be as skilled when it came to the world of darkness as his keeper, who had told him that his name was Caspian. He had learned to call him Mister Caspian, to maintain respect, and that his own name was Tate.

Tate Cooper, to be exact. Mister Caspian called him Cooper, and so he had thought that was his name for the majority of his seventeen years, up until Mister Caspian had gotten angry at him and yelled out his full name. This had terrified him, for Mister Caspian had never yelled at him, or felt 'anger' as he had called it.

Uneasy footsteps echoed in his ears as he used his hands to maneuver the labyrinth-like house (which was actually quite small, but when all you can see is a murky midnight darkness, things have the tendency to feel larger than they actually are,) searching blindly for Mister Caspian.

"Mister Caspian?" his short, clipped voice rang out amongst the flat. "Mister Caspian, where are you?" Tate's hands landed on cold marble - the breakfast nook, where he and his keeper ate every morning. To his right, he knew, sat a cushioned steel with its dopple ganger replica beside it, where Mister Caspian would most typically be. He sat himself down, his rump sinking in the satin-like material as his feet swung back and forth childishly, waiting impatiently for Mister Caspian to respond to his shouts of impending curiousity.

Fingers flew across the cold surface, tapping out a complex rhythm as they did so, filling the silence with quiet percussions. Tate did this many times when he was alone, wondering who the people on the tapes Mister Caspian had shown him did it. His keeper had said that they used things called 'drumsets' but the raven haired male did not know how one such instrument was played.

As he was left alone with his thoughts, the teen imagined the hands rotating around the centre of the circle that the keeper called a clock. He could hear it ticking, and thought of how much time had passed. Tate had no way to physically know what time it was, but he knew he woke up generally around the same time every morning, along with Mister Caspian. In his mind the boy kept track of how much time was passing, and knew that about ten minutes had passed since he first sat down at the table.