The scent of sandalwood seeped from the opening. He knew I loved that smell. He knew me well. I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it open, and entered the room, stopping once I saw how beautifully decorated the space was. Three tall white candles stood erect atop of a nightstand, all of them shining with a warm orange glow. Red rose petals were spread around them, encircling the candle holders and some leading to the bed. Next to the candles, four incense sticks burned, the vapor rising to the ceiling; that's where the smell came from. I looked to the bed, which was nicely decorated with fine-looking fabrics. I saw a small box of chocolate-covered strawberries alongside a bottle of wine.
I put a hand up to my mouth, smiling. This was so nice of him to do this for me. I'm definitely going to show him my appreciation when he comes.
As if on cue, the door closed gently from behind me. That must be him. The fluttery feeling kicks into high gear. I smoothed my dress, hoping it looked all right.
When I turned around to face him, I was blinded by a bright flash. Little white spots filled my vision. I tried to blink them away at the same time I tried to see where the flash came from. With one look at the person who caused it, my heart sank. The corners of my lips turned down. The person in front of me wasn't him. It wasn't the man I was planning on being with. My blood slowly started to boil as I shot a look of annoyance his way. He was being a thorn in my side now. When will it stop? When will he learn? He simply doesn't get it.
"What do you think?" he asked me.
I crossed my arms and leveled my head with his. "If I would've known this was your doing, I wouldn't have even bothered to show up."
"But I planned everything out just right. The chocolate strawberries, the candles, the wine. I wanted it to be perfect for you. For us."
"Does this look like a face that cares?"
"You don't understand, Erika. I went through the trouble of making it perfect. Getting someplace on this side of Atlanta isn't cheap, you know. I figured you'd like it here and would want to spend the night with me. I want to be with you."
"Then you shouldn't have spent your money here! I don't frickin' wanna be with you! Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever! In what language do I need to speak in order for you to understand?"
"I love you."
"Look, we already talked about that. You know I don't feel the same, okay?"
He didn't say anything else. Well, good. Maybe he finally got my drift.
I made a beeline for the bedroom door, getting ready to leave when he grabbed my forearm and yanked me back toward him.
"Hey!"
He grabbed both sides of my face and kissed me. For a minute, I didn't know how to react. I felt frozen, glued to the floor. His kisses did nothing to turn me on; they felt clumsy and awkward. His lips weren't the ones I wanted to feel tonight. A little flame sparked from within me. I gained the strength to push him away.
"You think he can satisfy you, Erika?"
"That's none of your damn business."
"He tickles your fancy real good, doesn't he?"
"Go away and stay away."
"You aren't his."
"I mean it or I'm calling the cops. I really will," I threatened, walking back to the door.
"Where are you going? You can't leave me!"
He grabbed my wrist this time, pulling me again. I gasped as he shoved me and I flew back, landing on the bed roughly. I scrambled to get up before he could anything else but then he came on top of me, straddling me.
"If I can't have you, no one can!" he yelled, slapping me in the face. I drew in a stunned breath. The slap burned my right cheek, stinging as though a white-hot wire had been pressed on my skin. "He can't have you, Erika. You're mine."
His hands pawed at my dress. He tried to urge it off of me.
"Stop! Stop! What are you doing?! Leave me alone!" I cried.
Next thing I knew, my dress wasn't on anymore. He somehow managed to remove it. He started to run his hands down my sides, down my legs. Then he pulled my underwear down. I tried to get him off me but the harder I tried, the more resistant he became.
"No, please! Stop!" I screamed.
But it was already too late. He was already in me.
I bolt straight up, my eyes wide open, gasping and panting for air. Darkness surrounds my vision, no matter how many times I blink to make it disappear.
Where am I? What's going on? I think, panic-stricken.
My hands graze my sweaty forehead, lightly touching the patches on my eyes. Oh, right. They're still on.
A sigh escapes my lips. That had to be the worst dream I just had. It all seemed very real, too, like I was there. Erika's screams and that guy's yelling all linger in my mind, burrowing their way into my brain. And then his touch on her body...I could feel it on mine. My body responds with a shiver. I don't think I've ever dreamt something like this before. It scared me a great deal. Hopefully it was just a one-time thing and it won't come back.
I reach for my phone to check the time when suddenly something comes to mind. I touch my patches again. I wonder...
I take them off, setting them on top of my nightstand. Then I grab my phone and unlock it, slowly letting my eyelids flutter open. Initially, the screen is blurry from afar. I bring the screen closer to my face and press the center button. One thirty-five a.m. It looks so much better close-up. And crisp. My vision seems to be clearing more. That's good, I suppose.
Pushing my blankets aside, I stand up, then walk over to the bathroom and turn the knob for the cold water on. I cup my hands beneath the faucet and wet my face, making sure to get every inch of sweat off. The cool water feels really good against my skin, it feels refreshing. I grab one of our face cloths and pat dry my face. I fold the face cloth back on the towel bar and walk out, heading back to my bedroom.
There's no way I'll be able to go back to bed, I think.
Well, I have to try. These past few nights haven't been treating me so well. I've always found myself waking up at one thirty-five in the morning. It's odd because I'm able to sleep the entire night without waking up. My parents say there could be a war taking place right outside our front yard and I won't stir. But something's been disturbing my sleeping pattern lately.
My parents' sleeping pills don't help me. The past couple times I've used them, they didn't make me sleepy. I really don't know what else to do.
I step over the threshold in my room and abruptly stop. There's something very wrong. Everything is different, my room is different. I'm not in it anymore. The walls aren't pink, they're the milky-white colors I saw once before. The beige carpet replaces the hardwood floor. The window that outlooks the parking lot is now there. Then, there's the DC Comics décor everywhere. The figurines, the posters, everything. It's all there. And my vision once again is crystal clear.
What the hell is going on?
Walking deeper into the room, I sort of expect the flash to fade away like it did the first time. But as I'm wandering around, it stays here, not disappearing. My bed—or what used to be my bed—is decorated with the DC Comics design. The nightstand next to it contains a digital alarm clock and a tall glass of water that's half full. No lamp or anything. There's a small dresser near the door, with a mirror attached to it. It shows the room I'm in but doesn't show my reflection. I run my hand over the top part of the dresser. It's made of wood and it's light brown.
"Whose room is this?" I whisper to myself.
Why am I here? Why do these flashes keep showing up? I know for a fact this isn't my bedroom. I wish I knew whose it is.
"Ali?" a voice says from behind.
I whip my head around to see Nevaeh looking at me. She's standing by my doorway in her cami and underwear, her hair a hot mess.
"Is everything all right?" she asks.
"Yeah, just needed to use the bathroom," I answer.
Nevaeh nods. "Okay. G'night."
"Night."
Once she walks away, I turn back around to look at the dresser, which is now my black one. My reflection shows in the mirror this time. I scan the room quickly. I'm back in my bedroom, no longer the DC Comics room.
"I'll be damned," I utter incredulously.
I shift my body to move back toward my bed. While doing so, the moonlight's beams gleam against my face, making it appear a pale blue. Out of the corner of my eye, something catches my attention. Something about my face. I lean forward more to get a closer look in the mirror. At first, I think it's just me. But it isn't. It's my eyes. They look...different. As I move into moonlight toward the mirror, I gasp. That's it. That's what different. I shake my head. No, these aren't my eyes. They're supposed to be green, like emerald green. Everyone would notice how green my eyes are, and that they looked so beautiful when light would hit against them.
The color encircling my pupils are not green anymore. They are blue.
Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night. My eyes not being the eye color I was born with did it for me. I tried convincing myself that my mind was exhausted and I completely lacked any sense of judgment at the ungodly hour of one in the morning. What happened wasn't real. It was probably the way the moonlight hit my eyes and the beams made it appear blue, which would've meant I was merely being paranoid. Then I tried forcing myself to go right back to bed and just sleep it off until later on in the morning. That idea went out the window. I tossed and turned, my highly alerted brain refusing to get the rest it needed. How could I? After that little incident, it's nearly impossible.
Had they always been like that?
Blue?
If so, for how long? Since the time of my surgery? But...that can't be! Your eyes can't just change color when you receive cornea transplants. It's not like receiving a brand new eye. Besides, my family would've noticed the sudden change in color. It would've been obvious from the beginning. Now I'm curious as to what they're going to say about it. The whole night these questions and statements buzzed in my mind.
At around two fifteen, I gave up trying to sleep and walked over to the living room, sitting on the couch and staring at nothing in particular. I lied down but didn't fall asleep.
When it's daybreak, the sun's rays penetrate through the cracks of the blinds, casting a bright orange glow in the living room like it's on fire and illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. It's then I get up from the couch to make myself a cup of coffee. Once I walk in the kitchen, I prepare the coffee maker. I figure since my parents are probably awake now, I might as well make some for all of us. After I press the button to start the coffee maker, I sit on one of the chairs in our breakfast nook. I place my hand under my chin and stare at the coffee pot.
While sitting here, the sounds of the coffee brewing actually lull me to sleep. They're soothing to my ears, despite the loud gurgling noises it makes. My eyelids begin to droop a little. As soon as they close completely, I jolt myself awake.
No, you're not going to sleep. Not now, my conscience scolds.
I really didn't want to, either. But I didn't sleep too well and now is when my mind feels tired. Of course, the sounds of the coffee maker aren't of any help. My eyes fail me again. They droop down, my eyes totally shut. This time, I let myself doze off.
That's when I feel a hand rub my arm up and down. I wake to find Mom standing over me, hugging me.
"Morning, sweetheart," she says softly.
My hand reaches up to touch her cheek. "Hi, Mom."
"I see you made some coffee."
"Yeah, I was...in the mood for some."
She walks over to the cabinet above the coffee maker and takes out a thermos. She's wearing all gray. Probably in her outfit, going to one of the teacher's meetings.
Suddenly, footsteps approach and Dad walks in.
"Oh, good morning, Ali. I didn't know you were up," he says, coming to kiss my head. Then he studies my face. "You all right, honey? You look sleepy."
I sigh. "I haven't been able to sleep well lately."
"Would you like some sleeping pills? I've gotta pick up some more at Walgreens today. They might help," Mom suggests.
"Already have. They don't help me at all."
"Really? Those things knock me out just as good as Jack Daniel's does," Dad jokes.
"Well, I wouldn't mind trying some Jack Daniel's," I reply, half-joking.
"You will not. I was being facetious, young lady."
"I know, Dad."
"How about chamomile? That's supposed to help with insomnia," Mom says.
"No, Mom, I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"All right."
I hear both of them pouring coffee into their thermoses. During the brief moment of silence, I begin to wonder if I should tell them what's causing my insomnia. And about my eyes. They haven't mentioned that yet, which is sort of weird. But I didn't make eye contact with them. Maybe once I get it off my chest, I'll feel better...somewhat.
"Mom?"
"Yes, Ali?"
"Do you notice anything different about me?"
"Notice anything different? Like what?" she asks.
"Just myself. My eyes, maybe," I respond, this time looking at both my parents.
"What about them?" Dad chimes in.
Is it taking them this long to notice the difference in color?
"The color of my eyes, guys."
Finally, they look in my direction.
"Not really, sweetheart. Why do you ask?"
"Because I—" Wait, they don't notice my eye color? That it's not green?
"Because?" Mom prods.
"Well, they're not...don't you see them?"
"Of course we can see your eyes. And it looks like they're getting better, too," Dad says.
I sigh. "Yeah." They don't notice the color change. Why? "I, uh...I've been seeing things, too."
"Really? Oh, Ali, that's great! How well are you able to see now?" Mom asks.
"No, I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was that I've been seeing things in my room I know for sure weren't there from before."
"What do you mean?"
I explain as best as I can about the flash I had and what was in it, feeling annoyed with the both of them. The white walls, beige carpet, a window that outlooks a parking lot, and the ridiculous obsession with DC Comics. I also tell them the nightmare where I was walking down a hallway in a building, expecting to see someone but it wasn't the person I expected. I tried to walk away from them but instead I got beaten. I deliberately leave out the part about being raped.
Both my parents are quiet throughout my explanation. A feeling of hope sparks within me, hoping they believe me.
"Honey, I think what it is you're experiencing with these dreams are post-surgery symptoms," Mom finally answers.
"Post-surgery symptoms?" I echo.
"Yes. It's probably as a result of the transplant. That's why you're seeing those things. That'd also explain your insomnia," Dad explains.
I stare at them in disbelief. Are they serious? They think what I've been having are symptoms as a result of the surgery? I open my mouth, wanting to tell them about the voices I heard yesterday in the bathroom.
Are you out of your ever-loving mind? a voice in the back of my mind asks. Are you asking to get sent to a mental ward?
I close my mouth, changing my mind. The last thing I need is for my family to think I've gone around the bend and lock me up in some institution.
"Don't worry, Ali. Things will go back to normal soon enough. I promise," Mom says, her voice breaking through my thoughts.
"Have you taken the eye drops Dr. Jackson gave you?" Dad asks.
I roll my eyes as I place a hand under my chin. "Yeah, I have."
"Good."
"Well, we gotta get going now. We'll see you later, all right? We won't be home too late tonight," Mom says, kissing my cheek.
"Okay. Love you."
"Love you, too."
"Bye, sweetheart," Dad chimes in.
"Bye."
They grab their thermoses and briefcases and walk out into the garage, closing the door behind them. I hear the garage door go up, their cars turning on. About a few seconds later, the garage door whirs as it closes. Sighing, I get up and walk to the coffee pot to pour myself a cup. I put in some half-and-half, stir the coffee, and walk back to the chair, holding the mug in both of my hands. I take a sip, staring at nothing while thinking.
I'd like to believe I'm experiencing post-surgery symptoms. It'd ease my conscience but so far, the things that have happened to me are too real to be symptoms. I can't convince myself any longer that this is all in my head. Out of all this, what's fascinated me is my parents don't even notice my now blue eyes. They've been in the kitchen for at least fifteen minutes, preparing their coffee and everything, and not once did they point out the different color.
Why? Did they just not notice?
I shake my head. That can't be it. They would've had to. But they didn't.
I don't know. I don't know what other explanation I can think of.
I get up from the chair, yawning, and sluggishly make my way to the living room, hoping that the mug of coffee would wake me up soon.