A whole lotta luck chapter 2

PART TWO:

     The message was shorter than I expected—shorter for two years of researching was worth. I tapped my finger against my chin. Forgetting the size of the message, was it really for me? Or was the message just a string of words that formed a sentence by coincidence? I smirked.

      It’s too bad that I don’t believe in coincidences . . . .

     At the age of nineteen, I was working at my uncle’s accounting firm as an assistant. I started working there at seventeen for need of a summer job and to make my uncle happy. I felt indebted to him and my Aunt S. because they took me in when my parents died.  However, I hated every hour, every minute, every second working there. I hated working with and around all the math and numbers. The ironic part was that I had taken advanced courses in mathematics during High School at my Aunt S.’s insistence.

     The day that I turned eighteen, I moved out of my Aunt S.’s house faster than a bolt of lightning. I loved my family, but I loved my personal space more. I skipped college this year so I could complete the hidden message.

     I’m pretty sure that I have an obsession….

     The tiny length of the message exasperated me since I had spent so much time finding it, but I felt a sense of accomplishment and anticipation also. Then I felt a quiver of fear—who was this A. person and why had he/she threatened death unless I came to the forest?

     What does the message mean exactly?

     It reminded me of a diabolical plot that an evil genius serial killer might send . . . I burst out laughing.

     Yeah, and Yoda will burst through my front door, inviting me to be a Jedi Knight.

     I held my breath . . . nothing happened. I scowled and stamped into the shower. For a moment, everything flashed with a shouting brightness. Everything had a new color to them,  like I was seeing everything in a new light for the first time—this place which I’ve lived in for over a year that I called home . . . was unfamiliar to me.

     I stumbled and tripped, blinking hard. I didn’t feel the impact, but when my eyes opened, I realized I was on the tiled shower floor. I blinked and got to my feet. I rubbed my head and turned the shower on. I rubbed away some fog on the glass wall and stared for a moment.

     I gave out a cry of shock and jumped away. Teeth chattering, I stepped back forward and peered into the mirror. My hands began shaking with surprise and fear. In the mirror, as clear as day, I noticed that . . . mixed in with my brown irises was a vibrant color of neon yellow.

     I had been staring into the mirror for two hours. I couldn’t stop staring at my eyes. My pupils kept contracting and expanding in a very weird fashion. They would expand so thick to where there was only a sliver of brown left then contract so far that there was barely a dot of pupil left. When there was only a dot, the irises grew lighter and lighter until they were a honey color. It became so eerie to look at that I threw away the mirror.

      My vision was thick and blurry, and all light sources blazed like the sun. Squinting, I closed every curtain and turned off every light. And even then, my eyes pulsed and vibrated violently. I attempted taking Ibuprofen, but the labels were incomprehensible—and I had no idea what I took. I do know that the pill—whatever it was—didn’t help whatsoever. At some point between the cold, stabbing shadows of dusk came the warm, familiar darkness of sleep . . . .

     Dawn wasn’t any better than dusk. If anything—it was more irritating. My eyes weren’t blazing like the night before, but they felt . . . sore and dry as if someone had yanked them out of their sockets and squeezed all the juice out. I was constantly blinking which made them hurt even more. Even worse, today was Monday, and I didn’t have the day off. I bit my lip in worry, because I was out of sick/holiday days too. I sighed, frustrated. Now I wished that I hadn’t faked all those sick days . . . unless you consider having a migraine from the very idea of working with finance, sick . . . .

     I had called a cab—deciding that driving while blind was a very unwise idea. Half-an-hour before the cab arrived; I began my tremendous journey from my room to my front door, to the porch, to the driveway, and to the sidewalk. I had taken my first step onto the sidewalk when the cabbie drove up and beeped his horn.

     I smiled uncertainly and felt for the car handle. All the brilliant colors of the cab and the different textures swirled and popped viciously in my face and made me feel nauseous. I finally found the door handle and dropped myself onto the leather seat, my head bobbing. I wrinkled my nose to the vile smell of sour milk. The smell didn’t help my nauseous feeling at all . . . .

     “Where to,” The cabbie questioned.

     “To the pharmacy . . . and I need to ask you a favor.” 

     Not for the first time, I was glad that the firm I worked in didn’t have a long column of steps to climb. The bricked road only sloped up—like a hill. I had the cabbie drop me off in front of the building, and I gave him a generous tip—I think . . . . All the numbers were swimming and turned upside down and backwards. I might as well have been dyslectic.

     I scowled, shuffling my feet. People strode past me, into the revolving doors, and disappeared inside. My eyes widened. I had forgotten the revolving doors! I tentatively stepped inside and began pushing the door. I had gone around and around seven times before I finally found the opening. My feet were wobbling underneath me, and I began wandering in zigzags. It took off my sunglasses and tried my best not to squint.

     Coworkers nodded to me and said their hellos. All the while, my eyes burned and I smiled weakly. Through the conversations, I found my office.

     Are you alright, they would ask.

     I’m quite alright, thank you. Just experiencing some eye problems. I would reply.

     They offered their sympathies and a bottle of Ibuprofen.

     Thank you. I would appreciate it. I would mumble.

     Are you sure you’ll be alright? They would repeat.

     Fine, nothing I can’t handle. I would reassure.

     Bye! They would say chirpily, quite to my annoyance.

     After they left I stumbled inside my room then plopped into my chair. I rubbed my temples, and then buried my head into my arms. My eyes were wrapped in Saran Wrap—a.k.a. brown contact lenses. I could feel the fear that enveloped me if anyone found out that my eyes suddenly started changing from brown to yellow. I felt sick to the bottom of my stomach while blood pounded against my head.

     It’s going to be a long day . . . .  I thought glumly.