Hello, November.

She was confused. Dazed. Torn. She was having a huge war inside of head she could no longer comprehend what she really wanted. Staring blankly at the horizon, she saw nothing.

      Nothing but emptiness. She didn’t see the colors – hell she didn’t even know what colors were! She can’t see a damn thing which drove her to the brink of insanity. She shut her eyes and saw darkness; she saw “an eternal abyss, my own Hell.” She opened them again, only to see very little. She saw the shapes but she didn’t know what they were. Were they beautiful? She didn’t know. Were they ugly? She didn’t know that either. Were they a certain color? She didn’t know that either. She didn’t know anything.

      Stepping closer, she smiled. Her small feet snapped the thin twigs and crushed the dying leafs. She stepped closer, gaining speed. Now she was running through the open field. Her breathing was shallow and she kept running and running. She was heading toward her freedom.

      She stopped running.

      She stayed still, listening to the birds and falcons chirp their song. She heard the wind blow around her, she heard her heart beat faster than she ever experienced. Her blank eyes stared at the rising sun, not knowing that at this moment, the sun was rising only for her.

      “November! November! Get back here! You have school!” Her mother screamed; panic seething in her shrill voice.

      November Burwell turned around, with her pink lips parted. She walked back to the small house, a house she described as “as bright as the morning sky, but nothing like the morning”. It was a deep rich orchard color that resembled November’s father’s eyes. It was a small house with a little porch and dark navy blue shutters and a white door with golden knobs in every door of the house, inside and out. It was a one floored house that was easy on both November and her mother. It was the only thing that remained of her noble father.

      Although November was blind, she acted like any other teenager, but yet never acted like one as well. She wanted freedom; she wanted to get rid of the help. She wanted to be normal not disabled. And every day, she woke up with the same desire. Like today, she has imagined what it would be like to fly, to live in the river, to run freely like a horse. She dreamed of the freedom, the power, but fears the wildness in herself that wants to live as the beast live, moved purely by need and desire. She’s torn between the heat of her limbs and the thoughts in her mind telling her to be careful and good and always calm.

      Licking her dry lips she reached the door which had a long crack going horizontally across the door. Opening it with her palms, she heard the all too familiar creak the old door made. She entered the warm environment she grew within. The smell of cinnamon and apples with a speck of vanilla made her neck hair stand on its end and goose bumps to show under her wool sweater.

      “Where were you?” Asked the concerned mother, her worry wrinkles deepening.

      “I was out in the field,” Said bleakly the daughter, “just trust me.”

      The mother pressed her lips firmly together, “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t trust your movements.”

      “What’s wrong with my movements?” Asked November, looking at her mother’s shoulder.

      “Nothing,” The mother giggled like a teen, “they are just jumbled together.”

      “Humph,” November crossed her arms, and turned back. She walked into the kitchen, as she felt her cold fingers touch the stoves edging, she counted four small steps.