Page 33 of If You Say So

The ride was short.

The destination was shit.

But I went inside anyway.

I unlocked the door, walked into my apartment filled with shit that meant nothing to me, and

walked straight to the bathroom.

There, I took a shower, being careful not to get my bandages wet, avoided looking at myself in the

mirror, then went to my room to slip into a pair of boxers.

Boxers that I fucking hated.

I wasn’t sure why I owned so many goddamn pairs, but I honestly needed to go to the store and

find something else more comfortable.

Especially now that they were expecting me to wear spandex pants from hell.

I got on my phone and pulled up my new Netflix account, found my favorite show, and pressed

play.

I sat there for all of three seconds before I jackknifed out of my seat and stomped into the

bathroom.

Once there, I walked straight to the vanity, then looked up at the goddamn mirror.

Just like I did every fucking night.

I stared at myself, long and hard, trying to figure out who I was.

What everybody said made sense.

Malachi Stokes. Six foot three. Black hair, olive skin tone. Type O+ blood.

But the eyes? Those didn’t make sense.

On my medical files, I was labeled as having hazel eyes.

My eyes now were not hazel.

They were a colorless gray that had specks of color throughout. Blue, if I had to guess. But the

colors were so few and far between, that there really wasn’t a way to verify if it was, in fact, blue.

My eyes were the only thing on my face that wasn’t damaged.

Though, when I was first brought in, I did have a corneal abrasion that had nearly cost me my

eyesight.

Luckily my eye healed.

The rest of me, though?

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