She had grown to love the dark. Grown to love her dark mornings and dark evenings, dipped in black and glazed over with the familiar buzz of everything around her. All she knew was black. Her reds and yellows and violets were black. So were her sunsets, pink balloons and front yard full of sunflowers and marigolds. And yet, she had grown accustomed to her black curtains. She was used to hearing only the sounds of voices and the touch of the gentle world around her.
Sometimes, if she shined her father’s flashlight from under the sink and pointed it at her eyes, her black curtain would lift ever slightly, and become a lighter dark. This lighter dark was called “grey.” Black and grey. This was her pallet, and she had grown to find comfort in her boat, floating through her sea of darkness.
Her parents didn’t want her to go to school like all the other kids who could see the differences between their reds and yellows and violets. “It’d be difficult. You don’t want that. There are others options.” Options the girl didn’t want to pursue. She knew she could battle the light, live in her speck of dark and live amongst those who could see and experience what she heard and what she touched.
She asked her mother what she looked like once, reaching out to touch her mother’s face, then her own, running her fingers from her forehead to her chin. “Well, you’re beautiful,” her mother replied, touching her daughter’s hand.
“What color is that?” asked the girl.
At night, she was told the world mimicked her black curtains. The light was extinguished from the sky and replaced with her sea of black. At night the girl didn’t feel like was missing out. At last, the rest of the word experienced what she experienced, felt what she felt, and saw what she saw.