Short Story

He had gotten the diagnosis when he was twelve years old.

The doctors told him there was nothing they could do, that his eyesight would worsen gradually over time. That it would eventually all be gone, like grains of sand out of an hourglass.

Except that it was his eyes.

They told him that he could wear glasses, of course, that it would slow the process, help him cling to his vision, like it was the string of a balloon, something concrete, something he could hold. There was always something you could do, of course. Even when it was terminal, there was some effort, some placebo that they gave to you. To make you feel like you were helping.

You weren’t.

He still wore the glasses, though.

He had gotten the second diagnosis when he was twenty years old. Schizophrenia. They didn’t sugarcoat it this time. They must have thought he was old enough to handle it, handle his own mind.

He had been handling it for twenty years.

“A mental disorder characterized by a breakdown of thought processes and by a deficit of typical emotional responses.”

That was the explanation. Cold, efficient, medical. It made sense. It elucidated upon the situation. What it didn’t explain was why the monsters in the closet were real, or why, every time he blinked, things were just a little bit different, just enough for him to notice. It was like the world was playing one long, drawn-out practical joke on him, moving furniture when he wasn’t looking, and putting it back when he noticed.

And he dealt with it. They told him he was one of the luckier ones. That his case was manageable, that he would be able to blunt the symptoms with the cocktail of pills and therapies that he choked down on a daily basis.

He had thought they were done sugar-coating it. Maybe not, then.

And the glasses kept getting stronger, making up for the eyes that obstinately refused to put in their share of the work. And his therapist would use words like “hopeful”, and “uplifting” when she talked about life, his especially. He had thought they were done sugar-coating it.

And it wasn’t until he was twenty-four that he decided to fight back against his own distorted reality. Maybe the frames on his face were there for a reason. They shielded him from the world, in a way. They kept telling him it was all in his head.

Maybe he could keep it that way.

It was a Monday when he met with the optometrist. He remembered the day because of the color. The first one.

He remembered the crazy idea. It wasn’t crazy to him, of course. Nothing about the real world was crazy compared to what his head could produce on and off command.

He thought that it would sound crazy to them, though. They didn’t have to deal with the walls shifting slyly when they turned their backs on them. So when they said yes, he was surprised by something real for the first time. It took another two hours’ worth of waiting, sitting patiently in the chair, watching the blurry world as if through a fishbowl, as they rearranged the round windows through which he viewed his everything.

And for the first time, he was happy that they were sugar-coating it for him.

Mondays were red from then on. It was a bright colour, significant and brave. It was fitting for the first one. The world burned like a glorious kinetic bonfire.

Tuesdays were green, a vibrant colour, a colour that allowed him to look out of the window in his apartment and see a different view from everyone else. The high-rises were covered with illusive, viridian nature, teeming with imaginary life that he knew was there in reality, waiting to take them back over again and reclaim them after everyone left.

Wednesdays, pink. The brightest, softest pink they could provide. The phrase “rose-tinted glasses” came to mind every single time he donned this pair, and it fit. They made the Wednesdays something to look forward to, instead of a simple reminder that he was only halfway through the week. He could see the flowers of everyone else’s thoughts with this pair, and the roses that bloomed everywhere, all around him. But only on Wednesdays.

Thursdays were yellow, a hot, dry colour. It had been a good idea in his head. The taunting colour that permeated through everything reminded him of the arid grains of sand, trickling out the bottom lids of his eyes, as they slowly emptied their contents into the air, their usefulness gradually disappearing forever. He dreaded the Thursdays, but refused to remove the colour, on principle.

Fridays were a deep blue, the colour of the ocean. They reminded him to calm down. They turned the raucous energy of his coworkers and the rest of humanity into something slower, something more manageable. Shadows detached themselves from their owners as he walked down the street, swimming through the air like fish around his head, drawn like moths to his thoughts.

Saturdays were turquoise, the infinite colour of the sky. The clouds were lower on Saturdays. Sometimes he would see them drift through his walls, crossing his room as he lay on his bed, watching the ceiling twitch. They didn’t stay long, but would stop in to join him briefly, like unexpected guests. Saturdays were almost as alive as Tuesdays, but different. They floated airily by, sometimes passing all in a single moment, as if they were in a hurry to get somewhere, sometimes lingering, wandering without direction. They were cumulus days.

Sunday’s pair were gold, a magnificent, comforting colour. The sunlight that streamed in through his windows flowed like liquid, and even the air itself seemed warmer. He drank melted gold from the faucet, and breathed in aurelian air. His mind was quieter on those days. It rested with him, giving him a day’s truce before they clashed in their weeklong stalemate again.

But it wasn’t a stalemate. He was winning, slowly but surely. He had befriended the monsters in the closet, and the movement of his own shadow against his will no longer made him jump the way it had used to. They would join him for company, not competition; amiability, not animosity. His rainbow accompanied him wherever he went, sugar-coating reality for him, creating a barrier between himself and the subconscious that tried to thwart him at every turn.

And it was only on the Thursdays that he thought about how the very thing that was keeping him sane only existed because he was degrading.

Disintegrating.

Fracturing.

Shattering.

Like a pair of glasses, dropped off of the top of a building onto the cold, unyielding concrete. He was only reminded of how fragile a truce he had drawn with his own mind for a single day each week. And even then, he had the presence of mind not to think about what would happen when the glasses couldn’t be made strong enough.

He was glad he could still sugar-coat it.

Featured image courtesy of Tess King