HIM
Days on trial: 0
Spectrum: Greyscale
-Vision is clear today, no changes.
-No colours when eyes closed or when thinking.
-Drug trial star-
"Tester 613?"
The shrill wail of a voice stole my attention from the notebook I had been haphazardly jotting down my notes in. A woman, clad head to toe in what I assumed was 'white', was calling from a swinging door. Her uniform was ironed, not a crease in sight, perfectly sterile.
Shoving the notepad into my slightly worn canvas rucksack, I casually yanked on the zip, strolling over to her.
"613," I nodded, apprehension settling in my stomach as I handed over the paperwork I had been asked to bring along. "All ready."
Her smile was false, just for show, and disappeared from her wrinkled face almost as soon as it had appeared. Still, I couldn't blame her. I was number 613 out of about a thousand, so she must have been doing this for days now. I wondered if she was like me; if her world was dull too. If it wasn't already dull through sight, then it was definitely dull through her career choice.
"If you'd like to follow me," her voice was coarse, singed from years of smoking by the sounds of it. Stumpy legs trundled down the corridor, leading me to an open doorway, where a doctor was sat, typing away at the computer on his desk. "613 here for you, Doc."
With a receding hairline and glasses thicker than jam jars, the doctor was in a slightly darker uniform, less sterile than the nurse, but with a much friendlier face. It was the kind of face you'd see on a dog food advert, or perhaps playing the role of Father Christmas at the annual grotto they held in town every festive season. His eyes lifted as he smiled, inviting me in as he confirmed my details.
"So you know why you're here, then, son?" His deep voice questioned, receiving a sharp, certain nod from me. I watched him nervously, rubbing my clammy hands together as he flicked through my case file. "It says here you've never experienced multi-spectrum?"
"Never," I confirmed, noticing the air of surprise in his question.
It wasn't that I hadn't ever experienced love before - my girlfriend, Tiff, would go mental if she thought I was going around telling people that. I did love her, truly, my brain just hadn't made the right cocktail of chemicals to trigger whatever it was that made people Multis.
It had been explained to me a million times over, something about receptors and cones in the eyes, that were connected by a hormone only released by falling in love. I forgot the specifics, but it wasn't important; getting on the trial and getting my stupid fucking brain to work properly is what was important.
I couldn't deal with another night of Tiff crying because I couldn't tell her that her shoes went well with her dress or moaning because I'd accidentally paired a blue sock with a green one. It was getting boring - but again, she'd go mental if I told people that.
Things would be fine, perfect even, if I could just fix my damn spectrum.
"But you've had substantial relationships, yes?" The doctor hummed, scanning my notes.
"Three," I nodded. He paused, letting me continue. "I dated throughout high school, the same girl for two years. The same again in college, and then I've been with my current partner for about nine months."
"And no changes in tone? No increase in saturation? Nothing?"
"Doc, I wouldn't even know what an increase in saturation looked like. It's been the same my whole life," I shrugged. His reaction was pretty tame compared to most people. Ranging from pity all the way up to disgust, my permanent state of Mono was always a topic of contention.
As a kid, you look forward to it; your first experience of colour vision. It was 'grown up'.
Lads on the playground would brag about the first time they saw colour, who the girl was, what colour her eyes were. It's what made you a man.
Yet the older I got, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was just never going to happen for me.
Girls loved it at first, my perpetual case of Mono.
I was a challenge, a trophy to win, a colour block to add to their own rainbow. For the most part, I didn't mind it - even in a black and white world, the attention was still fun. Just because I couldn't see colour didn't mean that I couldn't feel the vibrance it evoked.
They began to hate it once they realised they couldn't 'fix' me. I'd never be able to gift them red roses or buy them jewels that matched the colour of their eyes.
They were never able to instil colour in me. Nobody could. I just wasn't wired that way.
"Interesting," the doctor made a few more notes, before looking up to me with a warm smile. "As you know, this is purely a trial to see if our theories work. There's no guarantee it will. As you're already in a relationship, you could experience accelerated results as your body will already be producing some of the hormones needed to create the reaction."
"And if it doesn't work?"
"Then we go back to the drawing board," he shrugged, face still lit with optimism. I wondered if this had been his life's work. Easily nearing 50, it wouldn't be outlandish to assume it was. "Any other questions?"
"How often do I need to come in for check-ups?"
"Weekly, if you can," he queried, to which I nodded. "If we do the same appointment time as today, each week, that would be ideal for us."
"Fine with me," I nodded, eager to get my hands on the prescription I could see him writing up. His hands were a pale grey, dark veins and age spots dappled across them, shaking slightly as he signed his name along the dotted line.
"Just before you go," the doctor spoke up as I gathered myself together. "The trial is probably going to gather a fair amount of media attention, especially if it's successful. Is that something you're prepared for?"
Despite the fact I hadn't even considered it as a possibility, I nodded casually. "Sure."
"Excellent," the doctor nodded. "In that case, if you've got a spare half an hour, we've got a reporter coming in. Your case of Mono is fascinating, unlike anything I've seen before. How would you feel about her documenting your journey?"
I'd rather not, if I was being honest.
But, I didn't fancy being rude or impolite to a man who might be able to solve all of my problems with the prescription sheet that was still in his hand.
"Yeah, sure," I smiled faintly. "What's the harm?"
