My eyes are a puddle of oil. Just as soon as you know the exact placement of the colors, a breeze comes and changes the pattern. The colors twist as turn, falling in on themselves and creating new colors. They are disconcerting, strange and ugly. People say they make me look even more like an alien.
My hair is black. Not the dark luscious black of polished obsidian, gleaming even in the shade, but a dull, singed black. Not too unlike that of an abandoned Cadillac left for decades in the desert sun. It’s flat and dingy and I hate it.
My skin is pale. Blue veins show through as if nothing but a thin strip of paper separates the rushing blood from freedom. People think that I am among the dead when I fall asleep.
My name is Caraway Silk and my name has a beauty my body will never find. I find comfort in basic things, books, the occasional outing. But my life revolves around Bruce.
I have a dog as treasured as conquistador’s gold. His name is Bruce. Every morning at 9 O’clock, a ball of golden fur lands on the bed next to me. Every morning at 9 O’clock, my angel comes to awaken me. Every morning I realize that if he did not come, if he did not greet me in his special way, I would never awaken to the joy of life. The joy of Bruce, rushing to my aid.
Every evening, I set the table for two. The China is laid out. The food is placed just so. When all is ready I ring the little bell that keep strapped to my hip and a high pitched chorus fills the house. Bruce answers it with a single bark, signaling that he is sitting at his place at the table, paws placed squarely in front of him, head slightly lowered and dinner commences.
I taught him this. Or at least I showed what to do. It was his job to learn, just as it is every student’s job to learn. A teacher can only go so far without the student’s help. Because of this, he sits at the table to eat with me, and his manners are better then most humans.
With out a whisper, he speaks. With out a sound he hears. Bruce makes my blind eyes see.