Chapter 1

It has to be absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and maybe it is impolite, but I can’t stop staring. I love the colour silver. It’s my new favourite colour. There’s no colour in the world so wonderful… especially when it’s on… a spoon. This spoon. This spoon is perfect, more perfect than anything in the world - what is that, though? My reflection? Of course, I’d forgotten that I am the lovelies thing in the world. Absolutely perfect.
“Oh, I’m so cute!” I squeal at my reflection, “I should buy me a present!”
“Abbey?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, “Yeah, mom?”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m… um…”
“Abbey, you really need to learn to control yourself.”
I open my eyes, “Mom, you’re pretty.”
“Abbey, close your eyes and eat your meal.”
I squeeze my eyes shut obediently and pick up what I’m hoping is my fork… or spoon… or… not my knife.
Meals are the worst. The rest of the day I don’t have anyone around to tell me how to behave. I don’t have any friends. Or any siblings. Or any father. Just me and mom in this big yellow house. This house filled with so many lovely things, which is unfortuanate for me, because for whatever reason it is, ever since I can remember, I’ve fallen deeply and madly and incandescently in love with each and every thing I’ve laid eyes on.
I would say it’s terrible, but it’s not always so bad. Sometimes it’s rather helpful. Say, for instance, when I’m doing schoolwork. If one is madly in love with algebra, then it’s quite easy.
Although I have to admit, some times it is not fun at all. Because once mom figured out about my… well… problem, I haven’t been allowed to go anywhere, or see anyone.
She doesn’t know, but sometimes I watch out the window in the parlor and look at the neighbors as they pass by, and the carriages drawn by strong black horses, and the big red road that they walk on.
And although I, of course, love everything I see, I think perhaps those things I see that are outside of this house are so much more precious to me than those inside the house. Maybe I love those outside just a little bit more.
“Abbey, don’t take all day,” mom demands.
“Yes, mom,” I mutter, shoveling some potatoes in my mouth.
“Dearest, I just don’t know what to do with you,” mom begins, “If you keep having these outbursts I shall never be able to take you into public, and I was hoping to do so on your birthday, which is coming quite soon, you know. What would you like for your birthday?”
I sigh, “Everything in the world. And everything not in the world. And everything that there possibly is to see in the world. And everything that I’ve never seen before.”
I can almost envision her disapproving frown, “Could you please be reasonable and just perhaps close your eyes for a second and think of something you actually do want?”
“My eyes are closed, and I don’t particularly want anything,” I reply. Perhaps I’m being rude, but birthdays always seem to bring out the worst in me. Not only do they mean that I have to go another year madly in love with anything, but traditional birthday trends hold no joy for me. Last year I spent half an hour lusting after my birthday cake, until mom finally put her hand over my eyes. It was awful.
“Couldn’t you just humor me?”
“I’m not hungry,” I declare, setting down my fork, standing up, and opening my eyes.
The floor is so precious. So strong, to hold the weight of so many things placed upon it. And such a nice, dark, shiny wood. I bet that if it were animate, it would be of the especially kind variety. And if it were human, perhaps a dear, sweet monk, with a bald head and no shoes.
Perhaps the floor dislikes being stomped upon by dirty shoes? Perhaps it upsets him? I should take my shoes off, as not to displease the dear, sweet floor.
I kneel to untie my shoes and - oh! My shoes are incredible! So perfectly sculpted and so completely lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Yes, that describes these shoes perfectly. They are the loveliest things on the planet. In the whole universe, in fact, and - oh, I’m doing it again.
I close my eyes for what seems like the trillionth time today and stand up. After sixteen years of living in the same house with only having my first two years out, I’ve learned my way around. It’s not that difficult to manage to get around with my eyes closed. And besides, blind people do it all the time, and at least I’m not blind. My life’s not really that bad at all. If I were blind, that would be bad.
But if I were honest, I would admit that some days I do wish I were blind, because at least the blind have friends. At least the blind have felt the sun. At least the blind get to live.
Perhaps I’m just being too negative, because I do have one friend, at least, aside from mom, because I have my cat, Percy.
Percy is perhaps the one thing in this world that I love even with my eyes closed. He’s fat and grumpy and sheds too much, but he is the one being who really knows me. I mean, the me that even mom doesn’t know.
Percy’s the one who knows how much I absolutely despise the colour yellow (when I’m not looking at it, of course), and how I wish I could walk around the house on my hands, and how I wish I could dance. He is the only one who knows that I don’t like the taste of meat, and that I wish I could be very, very different than who I am.
And Percy is the only one who knows how many times I’ve tried to stop falling in love.
And Percy is the only one who has seen the tally marks scratched into my closet door with the kitchen knife, showing the exactly six thousand five hundred and seventy two times that I’ve tried to stop falling in love…
And failed.