We Used to See with Wide Eyes

Yes, I was fleeing. I couldn't take the disappointment that lingered at my parent's house. I was here again, in Mac's Diner, scribbling out all my frustrations in the stupid children's book. Today was not a day for perfection; rather it was a day to press the crayons to the paper until they snapped. I had already broken three.

You might ask: Aren't you a little old for coloring books? First: no one is ever too old for crayons, and second: it's the only type of therapy I'll take, both physically and mentally.

You try coloring the sky blue and the grass green after something like then happens to you. I see everything from a different perspective then before, and I always will because I can never go back. It's irreversible.

So here I am with my crayons and Star Wars coloring book, trying to teach my hand how to obey what my mind tells it to do so I can make the image I see when I shut my eyes, just like I used to. At this rate though, it won't happen. I can barely write legible, let alone draw in the lines of a picture. Still, I'm sure as hell going to try.

The door's bells jingled, signaling that someone was coming in. I looked up briefly and saw that boy from yesterday making his way towards the bar. I scribbled less furiously, I was the only one in the place and I didn't want to grab his attention. Attention always meant questions and questions were definitely something that I wanted to avoid because they always make me relive what I've had to go through, all of which is less then pleasant. I would probably take all my frustrations on him and then that would be just another thing on my conscience.

I concentrated on coloring in Princess Leia's buns, (the type on her head for all you dirty minds out there,) but I was less then pleased when she came out with an afro. Today is not my day… but then again when is my day?

I was happy for an hour yesterday, although, I shouldn't say happy, I should say less miserable then I have been in awhile. That is until my high hopes were shot down by my annoyingly technical, close-minded doctor. He used too many big words to describe how remembering was not brought on by the music, the place or the people, but rather by the process of my brain healing. I couldn't control it or even help it.

I had argued with him, insisted that he was wrong, even cussed a few times, but I when I went home and pulled out some music, I hadn't remembered anything. Old songs didn't do anything and I didn't even recognize any of the newer songs, but my mouth still knew the words. It was a glimmer of hope in this sightless world.

Then this morning I came over here, after escaping both of my parents' disappointed expressions. They wanted their daughter back. They wanted the other half of Liam back.

My heart had pounded as I slid into my booth and my hands had shaken violently as I stuck my headphones in and scrolled through my songs, wondering which one would bring on the flashback. I must have listened to two dozen songs before I gave up, for now. And so, before I could stop them my hopes came plummeting down and I let myself believe the doctor for a few seconds, but only for a few.

It's ok now. I'm coloring, that is, until my hand starts to cramp. Crayons are not meant for adult hands. My stomach growled. I guess I could take a break to eat something.

I looked around for Mac but I couldn't spot him. Guess I'll have to go find him. I was reluctant though, I was comfortable with the sun shining down on me and my books arranged just so. I scanned the bar in hopes that he would pop up from putting away some dishes, but it was useless, no such thing happened. I only caught the eye of the boy; he was seated at the counter. What is with this boy and staring?

I narrowed my eyes at him but looked away and breathed a sigh of relief as Mac came out of the kitchen. I waved him over and ordered my usual. While I waited for my breakfast, I stared aimlessly out the window, trying to ignore the boy's eyes that I could feel burning into the back of my head. What a loser.

Mac knows exactly what I like and what I want, he knows that I have issues with things of close shades and so he does his best to give me contrast. When he brought me my waffles drenched in blackberry syrup with whipped cream with fresh blackberries on top, I gave him a real smile.

I can always give a smile to Mac, but it's something that I rarely hand out to other people. It does help that I've known him since I was really little, I used to come here all the time with… well, never mind.

I was just cutting up the first bite of my delicious smelling waffles when I heard the clink of porcelain against plastic coated tabletop. I looked up and saw the boy looking questioningly at me with his plate of pancakes resting on the table.

"Do you mind?" he asked in a smooth voice. I didn't say anything but he took my silence as a "no." I guess he didn't catch my sigh or chose to ignore it.

As he dug into his pancakes and bacon which blandly melded in with his sickly sweet maple syrup (which has always disgusted me,) I took the opportunity to study him. He was probably in his low twenties, although he had a harder worn look, like someone young who's been through a lot. He had pale, light skin that contrasted beautifully with his dark hair and his eyes… his eyes held humor which shielded something not so happy, something that he kept locked away from the world. He was the guy who used jokes and laughter to avoid the hard stuff, to avoid remembering. His features were so intriguing and they differed so sharply that I took an instant fancy to him, but not the type you're thinking. I was just more inclined to be friendly to him, if I even talked, because I wasn't bored looking at him.

"What?" His full lips were clearly defined from his skin and I caught sight of perfectly formed white teeth as his mouth formed the question.

"Nothing," I mumbled, embarrassed to be caught staring, which is something that I despise on principle.

There was silence on his end as I took a bite. When I finished chewing, he stuck out his hand over the table, "I'm Brendon." I could tell he was looking at my eyes.

I stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before tentatively reach out and entwining my hand with his soft, warm one for a quick moment, "Parker," I supplied stiffly and turned back to my food.

We cleaned our plates in silence.

He didn't ask me a single question and thus exceeded my expectations. I knew he wanted to, though, I could feel the unreleased stream of energy emanating from his direction. I could tell he wasn't usually one for silence.

When he was done, he stood up, cleared his plate to the bar and came back to the booth with a wide, perfect orthodontically engineered smile stretched across his face, "Next time," he said playfully, "I'll bring my own coloring book and we can make pretty pictures together." And when I – unsure if he was making fun of me or just being nice – said nothing, his thousand watt smile never faltered, "It was nice to meet you, Parker."

He left only a slight pause for a response, which I didn't give, before he made his way towards the door, calling a goodbye to Mac on the way, and pushed his way out, humming a tune only known in his head.

"It was nice to meet you too," I muttered, fully aware that since he was already on the other side of the street, he couldn't hear me.

Two boys, each dragging a girl behind them, pelted out of the store in front of Brendon; they were all obviously having a good time. The first pair was comprised of a baby-faced boy and a girl with dark hair. The second pair was different somehow. The guy had a short beard and the girl was almost as tall as him, she had wavy hair. They would be together forever, because their worlds revolved around the other, I could tell by the look of dopey love that they sent each other and the way they oriented themselves.

I wistfully (not that I would ever admit it) watched the five of them standing together, laughing. Brendon must have felt my eyes on him because he turned, and before I could look away, saw me. He waved and I gave a small wave back, until I realized I was doing. The four others were looking curiously to see what Brendon was so fixated with.

I escaped to the bar so that I was out of sight, I don't like people staring. "Who is that boy?" I asked Mac, who was vigorously drying some coffee mugs.

"I'll tell you the same I told him," He replied, "You need to find that out for yourself." He asked about me?

"But Mac," I whined, "I've known you since I was six."

Mac chuckled good-naturedly and set down his rag, "I've known him since he was four."

"Oh." Well that ruined that reasoning.

"That kid's been through a lot. He pretty much had it all, but then… well, something tragic happened," Mac dropped his voice sadly; "He was… and still is pretty devastated."

I cocked my head, "What do you mean?"

"I'm not gonna spill his secrets," he said, "Do you think I would go telling him your story? Ask him if you really want to know, he'd probably tell you… or you can just Google him." He knew I wouldn't, but I couldn't help but wonder who he was if I could learn his life story on the internet.

When I didn't say anything and just started ripping apart my already ragged cuticles, he added with a smile that held a hint of a smirk, "I'm surprised he didn't talk to you more, he usually doesn't shut up. I think he likes you."

I looked at him skeptically, Mac shrugged, "Parker, just give him a chance. He's a really good kid.."

I snickered; it was funny to hear Mac talk like that because, although I knew he was a big softie, he looked like he could be a lumberjack. He was originally from the northwest and after twenty years, I don't think he grasped the concept of a 'desert.' His plaid flannel shirt was a direct testament to that fact.

"What are you giggling about?" he asked suspiciously as I walked over my booth and gathered up my stuff.

"Nothing… and I wasn't giggling," I tried to give him a frown, putting a ten dollar bill and my dirty dishes on the bar, but failed, "Say hi to Carla for me."

After checking for Brendon and his friends, who thankfully were nowhere to be seen, I pushed open the door and made my way back to the house.