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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?
