A classmate comes down with a nasty case of misanthropy. After missing school for a couple days, she’s back in class but has to step out every couple hours to put in eyedrops prescribed by her metaphysiologist—an elixir that sensitizes her eyes, allowing her to see the good in people as a gentle glow.
In the days after her return, I see her practically every time I go to the bathroom—always standing in front of a sink, staring into the mirror above it, so intently focused on her reflection. It makes me feel weird to see her all mesmerized and motionless, but she doesn’t care.
Then I feel even weirder when I walk in while she’s putting in the eyedrops—her head tilted back, one hand holding open her left eye, above it her other hand holding a vial. Awkwardness stops me in my tracks a few steps from the door, and all I can do is watch as sparkling drips fall on the rim of her purple iris. Then, blinking rapidly, she lowers her hands. She turns to me, and a split second later, a wide and dreamy smiles brightens her face.
Without a word, she offers the vial to me with her outstretched hand. And I reach for it. I’m afraid of what the eyedrops will do to someone who isn’t afflicted by a malady of negativity, but I want to see what she sees. To know how good we both are.
Soramimi Hanarejima is the author of the neuropunk story collection Literary Devices For Coping. Soramimi’s recent work appears in Pulp Literature, Cotton Xenomorph and Outlook Springs.