Whenever I look into a mirror, there is always a sense of wrongness. Like how my hair isn't supposed to be that shade of black, how my eyes aren't supposed to be grey, how my body just isn't supposed to look like that.
The feeling doesn't end there, it is present in every aspect of my life.
Sometimes I feel like a stranger stuffed into this body. But then again, I've never trusted my instincts.
It's kind of hard to, when I see and hear people where there are supposed to be none.
Apparently when my parents decided that it was time for me to start learning my colors, I couldn't tell anything apart, and they didn't think anything was wrong, up until they asked what color I liked most.
I couldn't name the darn block that had the perfect shade of grey.
Color is a weird concept. I know how I see the colors of a rainbow, I know what they look like, but I can't actually see them. It's ridiculous, what artist only does charcoal drawings, pencil sketches, and monochromatic paintings?
Me, that's who.
If I have to use color, the colors have to be labeled, and someone has to be my eyes to tell me if the color is too strong, or too watery.
I tried painting without having someone to guide me around once. Mum said it looked like I'd never seen color before, and was trying to get as much color onto a canvas as possible. Like a starving man at a buffet table, trying to get to as much as he can.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no?
It looked fantastic to me.
My parents say that when I was born I screamed and cried louder than any other baby they'd ever seen. They said that they were expecting me to be just as loud as I grew up, and that eventually I would be a leader. Someone who's voice was always heard over the hubbub of activity.
It explains why they felt the need to ask me if anything was wrong every day after I started dreaming and becoming aware. Nobody undergoes a huge change overnight with no outside influence. I was not supposed to be suddenly selectively mute. I was not supposed to be aware of how to discern colors, as all I could actively see was shades of grey.
I was almost normal (even if I didn't know what colors looked like); I didn't have dreams with familiar strangers in them.
And then I did.
I dreamed and forgot those dreams when I woke. Then went to sleep at night and continued to dream some more. Impossible dreams, of things uninvented, of books not written, of lives not lived. Not yet.
My parents say that being normal is overrated. But how am I supposed to know that? There is no manual that pronounces someone as unnatural. I am as normal as anyone can be. Just as flawed as any other human is.
Maybe a bit more flawed, but my parents say that I am their version of a perfect child.
Perfection… is not the same for everyone. Of course not, we all see things in different ways, and there are an infinite number of permutations of perfect.
Just because we all live in the same universe doesn't mean we see the same things in the same way. It's why wars are fought. Disagreements are common, they are a part of our nature.
If someone ever asks me what my idea of a perfect life would be, I think they would be surprised by how simple my answer is.
But I am not living my perfect life, right now.
Otherwise, the world wouldn't be so grey all the time.
Medication doesn't help. It goes in, comes out, and it's really just another part of my routine. And it's not like I have many friends. What's my mum supposed to tell other parents? Something like, "Oh, my daughter's fine, she just might strangle your child because someone only she can see tells her to."?
I was not invited to social events. Of course, that meant that I was mostly a recluse, talking to my parents, and Cassandra and Wilhelm, and anyone else who decided to pop by for a visit.
Wilhelm is aesthetically extremely pleasing. As far as I can tell, he's got medium colored hair and pale skin. Add to that some striking eyes, groomed eyebrows, gorgeous sculpted cheekbones, and a Greek nose.
On the other hand, Cassandra is plainer, but she has beautiful features on a plain face. Which is strange sounding, but true. Her mouth, if a little larger and less downturned naturally, her nose, slightly thinner and taller, her eyes set a little deeper.
Will and Cassie are quite honestly the greatest friends one could have. They've never left me, not even when I have fits. They are always there for me, at my doctors appointments, my recitals, my birthday parties.
"Figments of your imagination," Dr. Theo says, "They will tell you things. They might even tell you that you want to do something you don't actually want to do. Don't."
I did, once. Sort of, I guess.
A little bird, a baby finch, had fallen out of its nest.
"Save it," said Cassie. "It's a little bird, there's absolutely no harm in doing so."
"Save it," Will scoffed. "And disregard what diseases it might bring? There's no need to do anything."
Suffice to say, I ignored the bickering and went inside to get some gloves. To mostly save the baby bird, anyway. I put the gloves on and scooped the finch up and got some scraped knees climbing the tree. Too much of a hassle, I thought getting a ladder was.
I was obviously wrong, but I had already embarrassed myself beyond belief, trying and failing miserably to climb the tree. So I continued to embarrass myself. On purpose.
"You're an idiot, Cyndi," Will decides to point out the obvious. "But, props to you, being a smart-ass and getting gloves."
Cassie giggles, "We should have thought of that too, huh?"