Eyes.
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Grey eyes.
Colorless, hollow, empty. That's how she likes them. They used to sparkle incessantly; her eyes were always filled with water, though never unshed tears. As she grew she came to hate that fact, the idea that they could so ceaselessly shimmer and shine when they had no right to. So she draws her eyelids down, cutting away the bright dots that used to line the upper half of her iris, and she tilts her head forward, casting shadows over the rest of the monotone orbs.
Steady, monotone, solid. They used to change with her emotions, darkening in rage, brightening with joy, now they remain one color, and she wouldn't have it any other way. One color. It's easier that way. Now when people ask about her eye color, she can say grey, and they won't argue back that her eyes look especially blue today, or greener than usual, or god forbid, red.
Red eyes used to be the source of many problems for her. Whenever she cried, the crystalline grey orbs with turn crimson and puffy. Like a fire in reverse, first the ash, then the flame. Now they stay grey, and she prefers it like that.
So she walks down the halogen lit hallway, passing peers and superiors alike, never with a glance to any of them, ignoring the uncomfortable feel of clothes that aren't hers, supplied by some benevolent aunt or another. The strange feel of cloth clinging too tightly in some places, too loose in others, cut too high here and too low there. And she keeps moving, not that there was any reason to stop. No one here knows her name; no one here would bother calling it out for her attention.
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Blue eyes.
Such an ill described color. He would give anything for his eyes to be called some name unrelated to lakes and the sky. Someone once mentioned 'electric' to him, that always seemed nice, but his eyes aren't blazing enough for electric, or cold enough for ice. In fact, people shy away from describing them at all, simply because they don't really match the color of anything they know of.
They are often dry, and it makes his vision blur, so he fills his eyes with false tears, his own when he can manage it, and the synthetic kind found in a bottle when he cannot. He would love, just once, for his eyes to shimmer and sparkle like most people's. Just once, he would kill for a chance the have changing eyes that glow brighter with emotion.
Instead he lays at night in a bed that never feels quite right, wondering if a heated body beneath the covers would make it better and wishing for some way to change those dull, emotionless blue eyes.
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Green eyes.
Like acid, they always told him. Neon and harsh, a cutting glare that could make anyone cower. Dangerous, treacherous, deadly. Such a wonderful contrast from the dark skin and darker hair, not the darkest black-brown people expected, but a piercing green gaze.
He hated it.
It made him stand out in a crowd, made him identifiable, noticeable. Changed him from another face in the crowd to a face that might mean something to someone. It was an awful fate, in his eyes.
Still, to wield such a power over people with nothing but the bright green orbs to blame made him almost giddy, some days. Walking through the bright corridors of his home, his office, anywhere, people would cast their gazes away from the odd, indomitable green housed in his visage. It was intense, powerful, frightening.
As much as he hated it, he loved it too.
Never does he wish for a difference in those bright, acidic eyes.
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Brown eyes.
Maternal, they claimed, and kind, sweet like chocolate and just as comforting. That was how people described the coffee colored gaze when it turned on them. Even in anger, people still saw a hidden kindness beneath the unwavering chocolate gaze. It made her seem far too human, not like the far off idol she yearned to be.
Yes, an idol, wouldn't that be nice. One of those blue-eyed models kept so far from the rest of the world, so far from her. She would love more than anything to escape this life and live one like that. But she could never do it, for though it was untrue; people always claimed she was far too kind to survive the cutthroat world of that far off society.
No one ever saw how those deep, sweet eyes would harden and pierce the strongest gaze, they were too deeply mesmerized by the interminable kindness that never existed but was reflected all the same. It was more saddening, drew more tears into those perfect coffee orbs, than anything else in her life.
Brown eyes often filled with tears as she cried herself into a dreamland of a better life far from this place.
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Pink Eyes.
They hurt to look at things. Those strange blood-colored eyes. Everyone called them pink, but it was obvious that they were the color of the life liquid running behind them. Like a scared little rabbit. The paleness to the rest of the body did not help.
No one trusted the bravery housed in that seemingly frail body, even as the muscles moved time and again to enter the bright sunlight that burned viciously at albino skin, no pigments there to soften the glare.
Everyone wanted to help that poor, wretched being, even as their assistance was shunned repeatedly, endlessly. And in the same infinite fashion, the young albino ignored the burns of the light that caressed all others.
Why? The young mind would wonder ceaselessly.
Why had the bloody pink eyes chosen this body? Why had this life been stained with an unavoidable curse?
What was there that would not be given away in exchange for something so simple as colored eyes?
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