Author's note: This is basically everything I think about at night turned into a creepy story.
Light and Color3
(Light and Color)
Her hair is stringy and matted with his blood. This hospital is clean and modern, but some patients will not be mocked with the “comfort” and the “care” that we attempt to provide.
Her eyes, so light brown that they almost appear orange, are quite odd, like the eyes of a woman who’s seen very wrong things. They are always wide open… wide open, and deeply set into her slightly chubby face, as if they are trying to hide, trying to escape things that are not meant to be witnessed. She can’t help it.
She never looks at your eyes. She studies everything, anything else. She hates eyes, our eyes which do not see what she sees. She says we see nothing.
Yes, me again.
“This mirror, do you see the redness? I think it’s upset. Mirrors are about vision; you all don’t seem to see. Why can’t you see? I guess since you can’t see, you’d have no reason to notice the anger of the unseen.
“These walls, made in a feeble attempt to stop my vision, but how can you obscure what you don’t know in the first place? How did you miss the pictures, the art, the beautiful subtle colors in every shadow, every line and crevice of this gallery?
“Les arbres! Les taches! Je dois les dessiner. Sens, clair et merveilleux, est affiché dans toute la création, et il détruit l'humanité. Nous prétendons aimer la beauté, mais la vraie beauté est incompréhensible!”
She does that occasionally.
We try to go with it.
No one she likes knows French. Well, she doesn’t like anyone, but she tolerates me.
“Mankind hates the incomprehensible. Still, I try! I am without honor among my people. A bearer of bad news receives no payment in this society, but I do my duty. I draw. I paint. I see! Pouvez-vous ne voyez pas?”
I looked at her work, sprawled along the entire length of his cell, it was horrifying, not because of the blood and dirt, but because I almost understood it. She saw something that I nearly had once.
I suffer from insomnia. I say suffer, not because of a lack of rest, but because I almost see; I almost hear, and there’s darkness.
“Light blocks out our mind. We truly see best in dark. Night is the day for a human with eyes. There is silence; there is contrast; there is real power and vitality flowing through the stilled air. Grillons connais le mieux, and I must remember the stories that are told.”
Can’t you see why I’m inclined towards this horror? It makes so much sense. I wonder how many have snatched a glimmer of vision while they lay sick and feverish, confined to bed but unable to sleep away the realness. Then they forget. Of course, we don’t want to remember, so we forget.
I’m not sure if I want to remember either. I don’t know if I do remember. I’m not even certain that it happened.