Black and White

A One-Shot

Red; orange; yellow; green; blue; indigo; violet. The seven colors of the rainbow.

Black.

That was a color that never was, and never could be in the rainbow; a bleak and emotionless color. It was the only color I was able to see for the longest time.

For my entire life.

--

"Did you see her eyes?"

"Yeah, they're definitely that of a blind."

I cringed as they called me what they would. My eyesight was gone, but my hearing was still in tact. In fact, it could have possibly grown stronger; it was the only thing I could truly rely on anymore. My eyes were of no use to me, obviously.

"Why doesn't she wear glasses to cover those dead eyes?"

I stood my ground, and continued walking forward. I'd never let such a stupid insult bother me. Not today, not ever.

"I feel kind of sorry for her."

I hated that kind of remark even worse than the insults. I hated any type of piteous comment directed at me. They shouldn't be sorry for me. They shouldn't say things such as that, unless they have something they can do about it to make them feel less sympathy.

They can't cure this. No one can.

I resisted the urge to call out to them and put them in their place. They should have left me be, and left me alone. Like I had been, ever since I could remember.

I'd been in a car accident. At least, that's what I'd been told. My parents were driving me to a dance recital, and it was raining. We ran into another car at around seven o' clock at night.

The crash immediately killed my mother; she was the driver, and had gotten hit the hardest of all of us. My father survived the crash, but died a few hours later at a hospital close to the crash. I'd been in my car seat, and had only been hit a small bit. I was only five years old.

Though that was true, it had hit a part of my brain that controlled my eyesight. The damage was permanent.

I don't see the sun, glowing in the sky and brightening our days. I don't see the deep blue moon, shining down on the earth in the night.

I see only black-- nothing.

Sometimes, I imagine what colors look like; what it would be like to see a person, and not only know them from the sound of their voice. What it would be like to not have these hideous eyes.

"Hey!" someone called from behind me. I turned around in the direction of the voice which was clearly a male's. I felt the presence of the man stop in front of me, but quickly walk around me as soon as he'd seen my eyes.

"Sorry, wrong girl!" he yelled, speeding his way past me.

Of course I was the wrong girl; I had always been the wrong girl. No one had ever accepted me as an equal. They always watched out for me, or talked about me behind my back. I could tell. I'd heard them from a distance. I'm sure they didn't know I'd heard them, but it didn't matter, now, did it?

My walking stick tapped on the cement in front of me, keeping me walking in a straight path down the sidewalk. My ears buzzed, hearing everything around me at the same time. I heard a small child, whining to her mother about how she "didn't love her". She screeched so loudly, it made me wince and twirl my pinkies in my ears.

I heard a pack of teenage girls, laughing and gossiping about other teens they hated at their school. I hated people like that. I loathed them.

I heard a dog barking, loudly and aggressively. Assuming he was a large dog, I focused on walking as far away from the snarls as possible.

Abruptly, I knocked into something, causing me and my victim to fall to the ground. My mind spun out of control. It had been so long since I had forced something to topple over, so I'd forgotten how it felt. My face hit the pavement, causing me to groan.

"Augh!" I yelped. My body ached all over; sharp pains were felt from my head to my toes. I tried convincing myself that the pain was just my imagination, and got up onto my knees. I began feeling around for my walking stick, but succeeded to no avail.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and flipped around. I sensed the presence of my stick being handed out to me. I reached for it, only to have the holder jerking it away from me before I could lay a finger on it. I heard chuckles and light laughter from behind whoever was playing the trick on me.

I huffed. "Give me my walking stick."

More laughter.

"Ask nicely, now." The voice was that of a male; it was deep and masculine.

"I don't have to ask nicely! It's mine!" I shouted angrily. "Now, give it to me!" I reached for it again, but ended with the same result.

"Hey!" someone shouted about fifteen feet away from us. I turned back around to face the voice.

"Hey!" they shouted again. "Give it back to her!"

The new voice was a man's, like the other's. I heard my stick fall to the cement behind me, and the scampering of footsteps in the distance.

"Jerks," the man snarled. "They obviously have no respect for anyone."

I could see his dark outline against the sunlight's gentle glow. "Here," the man murmured after a moment, holding my stick out to me. I grabbed it reluctantly and stood up from the ground.

"Thank you," I replied. The burning sensation of blood traveling up towards my cheeks left me with what I guessed to be a pinkish glow.

"Don't mention it; those guys were idiots."

A breeze blew past my cheek, caressing it gently before moving on to mingle with the rest of the town. I couldn't help but think of the zephyr, and how its invisible beauty could be known to all-- even me.

After a moment of stillness and quiet, I spoke again. "What's your name?"

"My name?" he asked.

"Yes," I confirmed, "I do believe that you understand English."

He laughed. "Patrick. You?"

"Naomi."

I could sense him smiling. "That's a pretty name."

I shrugged. "I suppose."

I let my eyes travel downwards, towards the sidewalk. Why was I so shy all of the sudden? I was usually loud-spoken, but now I was particularly quiet for some reason.

"Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?" he asked, from what seemed to be out of the blue.

"Well, that was blunt," I scoffed.

"Was it?" he asked nonchalantly.

I let my eyes travel up towards where I assumed his face to be. Slowly, a smile crept upon my lips, and pasted itself on my face. For reasons unknown, it felt as if I could not be rid of it.

"If you insist."

--

I stepped forward, muttering a small "thank you" to Patrick who held the door for me as I stepped through the doorway of the cafe. My lips curved into a small smile as the scent of freshly crushed coffee beans reached my nostrils. They swirled in the air for a time before the strong smell dimmed, then became so constant that I had gotten used to it and began to ignore the lovely beans. What I then began concentrating on was, in fact, the sound of Patrick's voice.

It was deep, formal, yet musical and free at the same time. How odd was it, that his voice reminded me of everything good in this life? How he could remind me of the summer winds, which ruffled the trees' lively leaves; or how he could remind me of a snowy winter night, where everything was silent and calm?

Patrick's voice reminded me of the beautiful things I didn't need to see to know just how breathtaking they were.

The woman who stood in the front of the shop lead us to her seats, careful to always be speaking. It was like she thought I wouldn't be able to know where I was going unless she didn't. That was a bunch of rubbish; Patrick had intricately intertwined his fingers through mine so it was easier for me to move about the cafe without accidentally running into anyone.

This, too, was a load of rubbish, but I wouldn't be the one to speak up and tell this man that I didn't want him holding my hand. Because this was the first time in a long time that I had experienced the treacherousness of male and female interactions.

But besides treacherous, Patrick's touch was warm and gentle. His touch was stanch and firm; safe. Patrick's touch was such a predicament.

The woman, who was entirely to protective of my presence in the coffeehouse, took our orders with readiness and all smiles. Not that I could see her smile, but I perceived it in her voice. She was like a bunny rabbit: bouncy, perky, and far too cheerful for my taste.

When she arrived back with our drinks, we were silent. The only sounds to be heard was the sound of our lips sipping our cappuccinos quietly. Besides the ruckus belted throughout the rest of the shop, of course.

"I'm not sure if you realize this," he asked unimportantly, though I could hear the masked laughter in his tone, "but you really ought to know. . . ."

"Know what?" I asked, my own laughter hidden in the back of my throat.

"This would be considered a date." I would guess that he let a smile shine through his hard face at this point.

I grinned as well, despite myself. My mind had been against dating for so long, I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone out with a man. In any case, I felt like I was having the time of my life, and it was only a coffee date. My God, I was pathetic. But at least I had the right of mind to admit it.

"I suppose it is." I took another sip of my drink. It burnt my tongue and the roof of my mouth due to the elongated swig, but I was sure I could get over that. I sipped the coffee again.

We were quiet for a while, but it was a comfortable silence. Patrick was hard to explain; his company made me feel . . . well, at ease, I suppose would be the best way to describe it.

Before either of us knew it, we had finished our coffees, paid for them, and exited the cafe.

Patrick stood in front of me just outside the shop, staring down at me. I could feel his eyes penetrating through my blind eyes like knives. He reached out and grabbed my hand. I jumped a little; I wasn't expecting the gesture. I could almost picture him smiling.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to surprise you, or anything."

"No, it's fine," I replied.

"So, I was thinking," he began. "Maybe you could give me your phone number and I could call you sometime. We could get another coffee, or something."

I paused, mulling things over in my head. "Really?"

"'Really', what?"

"You actually want to, well, be seen around with me?"

He laughed. "What's wrong with being seen with you? You seem nice to me."

I felt a little hurt; he was trying hard not to say I was blind, I knew it. He was doing a pretty good job of it, too, but it was also kind of offensive. Maybe because I was used to being told that I was, well, blind. It was normal for me, and to hear him refusing to call me blind was something new that I wasn't sure I liked. Or maybe I did like it. But I didn't know how I felt about it, really. I was just guessing I didn't like it.

"All right," I said. "Do you have a pen? Paper, maybe?"

"Yep, hold on," he said, releasing my hand to try and find a pen in his coat pockets. A moment later, I heard the clicking of a pen's tip being ejected from it's plastic coating and the ruffling of paper being held out in front of me.

I held my hands out and took the materials. I then quickly scribbled down my number, hoping that it looked legible.

"Can you read that?" I asked.

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "Is that a nine?"

"Yeah."

He laughed to himself and I smiled. Patrick gave me this feeling that made me always want to smile. I couldn't help it; he just put me in a mood that no one else had been able to place me in.

"I'll see you around, Naomi," he said. I could hear him turn around and begin walking away from me.

I reached my left hand up into the air and waved. "Bye, Patrick!"

And I could have sworn I felt him waving back.