My skin goes cold as a sudden wave of fear grabs me. I leap to my feet, ignoring the pain, and rush into the woman’s room, pushing past her. She makes some protest or other as I look around urgently. There’s a mirror in one of the wardrobe doors, and I dash over to look into it.
My fears are right there, staring back out at me. My eyes are bright pink, maybe even slightly luminous. They should be brown, and they’re pink. Almost as distressingly, they look ridiculous — far too over-dramatic in my familiar face. I close them for a long moment, maybe hoping it’s a mistake, or a remnant of dream. When I open them again, nothing has changed. I can see the woman, watching me, in the mirror. Her anger is fading to sympathy.
“My eyes.” I don’t remember moving, but I’m sitting on the edge of the bed.
“They’ve changed.” She says it as a statement, not a question.
I nod. “They’re — they were — brown.”
“It could be worse,” she says. I stare round at her, amazed. She seems a little surprised by my reaction. “Come on,” she says. “You’ve seen worse, here.”
I don’t know what to say. There’s an awkward silence, and then her eyes widen.
“You’re new, aren’t you.”
I shake my head wearily, then say...
- ..."Yeah. I guess I am." (50%)
- ..."Where the hell do you think I am?" (30%)
- ..."No, I checked in earlier today." (20%)
- ..."You're a mad bitch, and I'm off." (0%)
Voting Closes at: August 10, 2009 @ 2:00 pm
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