I'm not quite sure of the color, but I know there is white in my eyes, my innocent eyes, my eyes which watch the grass growing from a lofty second floor window, so far from the world. Up here, the crime, violence and hatred that infest society cannot haunt me. I don't care about it. Up here, I'm safe.

Pleasant faces rush in and out of my view. They make sure I'm nourished. They keep me clean and warm. They work to comfort me. They try to keep me silent.

Sometimes, they smile.

But I love to watch the rain falling. I can see it slapping against the window, beading up and rolling away slowly. Witnessing the world's baptism from my window places a soothing smile in my heart.

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of the stars at night. The celestial gems reflect in the glossy whites of my bewildered eyes. The darkness they inhabit is far too cruel and overpowering. It holds too many secrets in its warped tatters.

When the pleasant faces turn out the lights at night, I see living fears: a monster, the bogey-man. I sit up in my bed and stare at a mutilated being and pitifully sob. Its leathery face, distorted and drawn, ties knots of sickly terror in my stomach. It is deeply cracked, and so pale it emanates a chalky aura. A gaping, toothless frown falls from its boney, cob-webbed jaws. I wish I could feel a pair of warm arms holding me, or a satin voice to tell me it's only my imagination. But all I get for my wishing is a deep stare from the apparition.

I look into its eyes.

They are swollen, throbbing. So stricken with terror, my eyes pulsate, bursting. I'm not quite sure of the color, but I can identify the whites of those eyes.

I cry hard as the mirror sits coldly on the wall opposite me, searching me. n