A/N: This actually has nothing to do with Po. It's just a morbid look at someone who's Graced.
Dedicated to chercherlecirque, because I had no idea that she wrote in this fandom. (Hey Cher! It's Kill! :D)
They recoil. They cross the street when I walk by. They look down when I speak to them, look away from my frightening eyes.
They are terrified of the difference in color between my right eye and my left.
They tremble before my brown eye and my orange one.
How exquisitely appropriate it is, that my Grace allows me to focus on their frightened expressions and bring the small fearful twitches of their lips into excruciating detail.
The very eyes they fear as a symbol of what I am are the instruments of my Grace. Again and again, it all circles back to two small orbs located in my upper face, the same ones I press on lightly and feel shift like delicate jelly-filled sacs. I cannot understand how such small things can make everyone around me hate me until I hate myself.
(When I am twenty, Marianne Pearson screams and runs to her mother at the sight of me. That day, I rid myself of the sight of them forever. The quicklime intended for a building works quickly on my horrid eyes. Neither they nor I will be disturbed by my sight again.)
Notes for the Confused: He blinded himself with quicklime, which is a corrosive substance used in mortar.