Blurred to Indigo
Chapter One
The Pen of Night Writes with a Heavy Hand
Reality is relative to each person, simply depending on what one allows himself to believe is true.
She glows. In the pitch dark, her skin glows, mesmerizing him. She glows white and silver, abruptly interrupted by indigo black. She is ghostly; he'd turn on the light, but he prefers ethereal whiteness to sickly yellow. When the lights are out, she glows with innocent pallor and beautiful curves like Indian ink, images marking his minds like calligraphy. When the lights burn bright—too bright—her skin seems lucent and jaundiced, glowing with a different endearment. She looks like liquid gold in the ways she moves and sickly timid with the stains of ink on her yellowed pallor.
He's losing her, he realizes. His hand grips desperately to hers, but she just shoos it away and shares another sip from the plastic cup, liquid burning her throat and lifting her mind from mortal worries, towards intangible bliss.
He stares intently into her eyes, absorbed by her deep chocolate orbs, and eventually they're the only thing he can see against a backdrop of white. The image of her cascading locks disappears, her familiar bone structure gone along with the curve of her hip. Intense, clear brown stands against dark blue, and he's taken back; he's scared; he feels insane. Suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath, the piercing aroma of alcohol ignites his body and pulls him back to reality—or is it reality? He can't be sure.
He starts to see features seeping into place around the pair of eyes still mesmerizing him, but there's something different. The hair isn't of the same silky quality; unfamiliar course waves start to frame a new set of cheekbones. The same eyes still penetrate his gaze, but his mind is sent into a frenzy as he realizes she is not the same girl he was just gazing upon.
There is no such thing as reality.