Apple Pie

Oct. 26th, 2009 02:38 pm
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Title: Apple pie
Author: Devo79
Character: Xander
Rating: G
A/N: What if Xander had been completely blinded by the preacher?

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In his dreams he sees colors. Bright enough to hurt his eyes, yet he never looks away. No, he focuses so strongly on them that his eyes water and his head hurts. The weird thing is that they smell, the colors. Each has a distinctive scent and he knows that’s wrong, knows it wasn‘t always like that.

Usually it all starts out dark. Pitch-black. Like tar or that coffee the foreman used to make, strong enough to eat away rust. Dark and all consuming and familiar. Safe.

Then a burst of colors raining from the darkness splattering their relentless brightness over the world giving it life and meaning. Apple pie drowned out by flowers, spice and ocean breeze.

But what he loves the most is brown. Like earth and bark and the eyes he remembers seeing in the mirror every morning. Brown smells like Africa. A heady scent that creeps through his body, slithers up his spine and settles itself in his heart.

He’ll try to explain it. Say with words what can’t be described. He once told his girls about the apple pie scent. How it surrounds him and makes him feel safe. How yellow always makes him smile and grey smells rancid like juice gone bad.

They pat his shoulder and make all the appropriate noises. Tell him how fascinating it is, how they wish they could see the world as he does even though he knows he’s a constant reminder of what they would rather die than live with. The world gone, wrapped in blackness and seemingly out of reach.

But they forget about the apple pie and the flowers, the midnight blue and the scent of Africa.

The scent of home.

Wide plains of ochre grass and deep blue sky, black and white striped animals running in herds until they become one large sea of color thundering by. And the blue glinting from a beetle’s back as it struggles through the dirt in a constant battle against its environment.

They’re surrounded by it every second of the day and grow blind to it. Grow accustomed to the pure onslaught of hues and contrasts until they take it for granted and pat him on the shoulder when he talks about the darkness that brings with it the scent of homemade apple pie.
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