bookworm_shawn

Violet Burgandy awoke one morning to find that everything in her house had inexplicably
turned black overnight.

It was as if a mischievous team of expert painters had come in while she was sleeping and meticulously coated every colorful, vibrant surface in darkness. The walls,
previously café au lait, were now midnight. The ceramic,
wood-look tile, a vortex. Violet walked uneasily to the kitchen. Her new stainless-steel
appliances were black. She opened the dark tomb of a refrigerator to reveal black milk, black butter, black eggs. She stared in absolute stupefaction until the door ajar alarm
wrested her back into reality.

This simply could not be.

There was no possible way that someone could have painted or replaced her walls, her
flooring, her appliances, and her food items overnight and so she resolved to follow the most
logical solution given the gathered data: her eyes must be the problem.

She made her way through the cave-like hallway to her bedroom. What was previously
teal, her power color, was now the same as the living room: jet black. Her husband,
away on one of his frequent business trips, hated the color but indulged Violet in her fanciful
requests. The lights and mirrors in their bathroom, thankfully, were not blacked out, but only served to illuminate and reflect the black void with alarming accuracy. Violet grabbed the glasses she hated wearing. No change. Still blackness. She took them off and put in her contacts. No change. Still blackness. But now she could see with clarity that her nails were no longer blush pink, nor was her hair highlighted shades of summer blonde. Raven haired, nailed, and eyed, she headed into town in her formerly white sedan to see just how extensive her eyesight issues were.

Her town had been transformed into a miniature Gotham City, with dark towers of varying sizes that loomed over her and the passing dark vehicles. Though it was mid-morning, the starless sky was as dark as she had ever seen it at night. She drove until she pulled into the parking lot of her optometrist’s office. What was a tidy, white office now resembled a nightclub.

“I need to see Dr. Lee as soon as possible, please,” she begged the young gentleman
who looked dressed for a funeral. He gave her a sympathetic look and asked her to take a seat on
the black leather sofa by the black table covered in black magazines. After several minutes, Dr.
Lee emerged looking much like she always did, as she had always had beautiful black hair, only
now her coat was black instead of white.

“Mrs. Burgandy, how are you today? We aren’t scheduled for another month. Is
everything okay?”

Violet considered her words carefully before speaking.
“I think I may need to adjust my prescription. This morning, I woke up and everything suddenly
looked . . . much darker . . .” Violet studied Dr. Lee’s dark eyes for any traces of incredulity. Violet knew she wasn’t crazy. She simply had a problem that needed fixing and causing unnecessary panic would not help her.

Dr. Lee paused to process Violet’s words before jotting a few indiscernible things down
on her black clipboard. “I see. This is not an uncommon problem for women your age. Let’s get your visionchecked again. Please, have a seat here and look through the lenses.” Dr. Lee motioned
Violet over to the black stool in front of the black ophthalmoscope.
Violet did as asked and looked into the dark lenses before her as Dr. Lee adjusted the
settings and jotted down more notes on her clipboard.
“Mrs. Burgandy, can you tell me what you see?”

Before Violet’s eyes, colorfully-clad bodies writhed sensually to Caribbean music, a
woman spoke rhythmically into a microphone while a vibrant audience snapped their fingers, an
intimidating volume of literature with a title she couldn’t quite make out was held in the air by a
heavily braceleted wrist. Written by Violet Burgandy gleamed in gold against the teal leather.
Violet, as if burned, pulled away from the lenses.

“I’m not sure. It wasn’t letters or images, but movies perhaps . . .of dancing and a book . . . ” She trailed off, uncertain of how much she should reveal to Dr. Lee. She might refer her to a
psychiatric facility if Violet wasn’t careful.

But Dr. Lee only smiled and pulled up another black stool so that she was black eye to black eye with Violet. “Yes. It would appear you’ve had a change in perception. This often happens as we age
and our vision . . . adjusts. Let’s get you set up for new glasses and contacts. They should be
ready by tomorrow morning.”

Violet thanked her and embarked on the dark drive home. The palm trees looked like
Halloween decorations, each building like a haunted house. Could she really go a whole day like
this until her new lenses were ready? It was miserable, but what choice did she have? As she
drove on in darkness, the buildings blurred into one long black corridor. It felt as if she were
driving in outer space or hell, which were relatively the same in her estimation.

And then it appeared before her.

Flanked between somber black towers was a building whose red-brown bricks gleamed in the daylight that seemed to shine only on it and not on the other structures, which remained
swathed in night. Violet veered dangerously across three lanes toward the glow. She parked and
all but ran to the emerald green door. A wooden sign painted the same color as the front door had
the name Chopin’s carved into it.

Violet readied herself for the possible disappointment of familiar darkness to flood her
vision. But to her delight, the space was bright and warm and filled with animated conversation
and laughter. She didn’t recognize any faces but still felt far more at ease than she had since she
awoke. No, far longer than that. The walls were filled with vivid, provocative pieces of art, shelves
packed to exhaustion with books, vinyl record albums, wildly vining plants. Violet recalled that,
decades ago, she had suggested a similar yet more modest layout and design for the walls of the home she shared with her husband, but he had thought them a bit too eclectic and steered her to a clean, utilitarian look that they both agreed was more practical for resale.

“Welcome! I’m Sage.” A woman dressed in a plum romper approached her bearing a
coffee.

“Thanks. What is the place?,” Violet asked. She wanted to ask and why is it in color
when everything else is dark? but thought better of it.

“You have found Chopin’s, home of the free. Here we write, we dance, we live. Outside,
they remain . . . in the dark . . .”

And there it was. Sage, and likely the others here, were most certainly aware of
Violet’s perspective issue.

“So is this a clubhouse or a store? How often do you all meet here?”

“Meet? Oh no, we reside here. This is our home. It appears misleadingly small from the
exterior, but I think if you explore a bit you’ll find we have all the room we need and more. Have
a look around. I’ll be here when you have questions.” Sage gently squeezed Violet’s arm before
flagging down a man in a mustard-yellow suit.

Violet peered down the narrow hallway that led out of the main entry room, wondering
how it was possible to house the dozens of people she passed on her way. As she walked past
the first doorway, she saw a library seemingly larger than the entirety of the building. Rather
than dwell on how this was possible, accepting there were some things she simply did not
understand yet, she walked on, encountering an art studio of equal expanse, a Victorian mansion,
sprawling gardens, an aviary, a disco. Each room seemed to contain a world more enticing than
the previous. The sheer scope of it defied all logic, but hadn’t everything else she’d encountered today?

Violet ran back to find Sage who was in the middle of a group, laughing and shaking her
head in playful disagreement. She waved when she saw Violet.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked, pulling Violet into the folds of the group’s
circle. The faces were inquisitive but friendly.

“This place is . . . unreal. I’ve never experienced such overwhelming beauty. How can it
not be filled with all the people in town?”

The group smiled and chuckled. A man in a green suit standing to her left offered her his
hand to shake.“If only they could all find us. We are a bit hard to see from the road, ” he replied
knowingly. “Unfortunately, many of our fellow townspeople are content with their current
perspective and overlook Chopin’s completely.”

Violet wanted to ask more but feared overstepping and being cast out of this magical
place. Just then, her phone rang and she excused herself to answer it. It was her husband,
checking in on her from the road. He’d still be gone another week and hoped she was doing okay
in his absence. She assured him all was well before returning to Sage and the group and thanking
them for hosting her. “I’ll be back, I’m sure. I just have a few things to tend to at my house first.”

“Take your time,” replied Sage.

Outside the darkness remained and it took everything in Violet not to run back to
Chopin’s. But that would not be fair to her husband, nor to the life they had built. So she returned
to her black house and walked up the black porch steps. There was a small black package on the
black welcome mat. She bent down to open it and found within it a new pair of glasses and
several sets of contact lenses. She absentmindedly placed the new frames over her eyes and was
overwhelmed with the red of her front door. The new prescription had arrived earlier
than expected and it actually worked! She flung the bright door open and ran to her kitchen,
which had resumed its natural tone. Her butter was yellow! Her eggs were white! She ran to her
bedroom and ran her hands along the teal of her walls.

Sage and Chopin’s felt like a fever dream, exciting enough but unrealistic. Not secure and
safe like her house and her marriage. She ran to her bedroom that had now blessedly returned to
its teal glory and briefly allowed herself to imagine what the walls would look like covered with a
collage of modern art, hanging plants, and floating bookshelves.

She was so content. She’d never leave home again.