5th September, 8:17am
I am sitting alone at a table for two in my favourite corner coffee shop in the centre of town; the table is situated in the dark corner of the shop away from the window so that no bustling workaholics in their striped suits could stare at me drinking my coffee. I am doing the morning crossword and sudoku in the paper as I usually do every morning, nibbling on the tip of my pen as I dawdle on the missing letters and numbers.
I reach over to drink my scalding hot coffee, burning my tongue as I take a sip of the deliciously painful beverage. Hastily, I turn the page of my newspaper and, in doing so, accidentally cut my index finger with the sharp edge of the paper. I scold myself and watch as warm, black blood begins dripping down my hand and staining the paper with dark blotches. I use my white napkin to soak up the blood and that napkin, too, begins to turn black. Frustrated with myself, I stand from my chair and make my way to the washroom.
The grey water feels so cool on my hands as I wash away the thick blood now accumulating around the plughole. My eyes travel to the mirror that is facing me; the shiny silver glare from the lightbulb above it blinds me. I see the darkness in my eyes and the unwashed faded curls of my hair hanging down in lank strands at my shoulders. Around my neck is a sterling silver angel wing my sister sent to me by post six Christmases ago to give me courage. My unshaped nose and thin, grey lips make my expression look all the more melancholy; the clothes that my sister picked out for me are varying shades of black.
I only trust myself with black; consistency is what keeps me safe.
Looking down, I watch intently as the blood spirals down, merging with the water and creating patterns around the sides of the sink. I become so memsmerized in the blood that I don't hear the door of the washroom open and a figure entering. I hear the clicking of her high heels; immediately, I rush out of the washroom avoiding all eye contact and forgetting to turn off the tap.
The hot coffee heats my hands as I wrap my fingers around the cup; I hear the churning of coffee machines grinding up fresh beans for their daily special and the low buzz of light conversation from work assistants grabbing coffee for their bosses. I hear the metal scraping of the chairs against the ground and the silent curse of one of the head baristas swearing to change the tiled floor to carpet.
I take my newspaper and my coffee out of the shop and start heading to work. Being a teacher at Barden Secondary requires the patience of a saint, especially at the start of a new school semester. The students do not know about my achromotopsia; I would prefer it if they didn't, or anyone didn't, interfere with my personal life. I have spent years building my walls up and I am not about to let anyone tear them down.
