Ah yes friends here is some colorblind for u

there's mentions of suicide but it's pretty passive

John looked down at his lukewarm plate of eggs and sausage, and then across the table to her. He couldn't stomach any of the food, he felt so guilty. He forced a thin lipped smile, and said, "I don't even like Mr. McKinley's son."

Claire looked at him quizzically.

"He's a brat," John supplied.

"Oh."

"He stomped on your tulips, once."

Claire chewed methodically on the inside of her cheek for a moment, looking down at the dining table. "Well," she murmured, letting the conversation finally stutter to a halt. She looked distracted. She reached for a cigarette on the dining table, only to realize it wasn't there.

John could only wonder how many scars she had. He'd seen all of her body: she had freckles on her face and a birthmark on her hip that was shaped like an apple. She had stretch marks on her hip bones, the creases of her knee. Her lungs were probably tarred.

But scars? Claire was uncannily lucky. She'd never broken a bone, or had a temperature above 102 degrees, or fallen and hit her head.

John, on the other hand, had a scar on his thigh, when he was bitten by a dog; there was another on his knee; another on his shoulder. He'd forgotten where he got certain cuts that left scar tissue, the pain forgotten, only the reminder remaining.

Of course, you couldn't see emotional scarring physically. It never manifested on the flesh, but he sometimes saw people at the clinic with their eyes nervously flickering towards noises, and heard about the stories where people had nightmares because of the trauma they suffered overseas.

One of his moodier patients killed himself after acting irrationally for months. No one had known how to fix it, because it wasn't physical. No one knew how to fix sadness. That was how it was. People cried because they were sad and other people looked away because they wanted to give them space.

But soon space was negative space, and then negative space was void, and people stopped having nightmares and started refusing to fall asleep. That was how it was; and it was sad, but if you dwelled too long then you'd start suffering from insomnia, too. People had wounds that never turned into scars. Some bled out, and those wounds turned gangrenous when they were put in the ground. Others idly chatted about them: "Such a shame, innit?" like they were somehow better, incapable of fitful sleeps, infallible.

Some people compared suicide to disease. Others compared it to a tremendous flaw in character; yet more said it was cowardice.

John tried not to form opinions on things he knew nothing about. He was a doctor, but not the type to give someone electroshock therapy and stick their head in a metal brace so they'd stop trying to kill themselves. He healed people, but it was useless, wasn't it? Because once the wounds turned into scarring, there was still the constant reminder, and reminders were worse than any amputation or prognosis.

John tried not to form opinions. Instead, he stated facts. "Your hair's growing longer," John said, forcing himself to stab his fork into a lukewarm sausage. He gingerly stuck it into his mouth, immediately regretting it as the bile rose in his stomach.

Thoughtlessly, Claire tangled her fingers through the locks of pin-straight blonde hair. "I'm going to have to visit the salon, soon."

They have the worst thing going on

Also, a bit of food 4 thought

Are english people supposed to call this "colourblind"? Is that some sort of translation? Or are you not supposed to change it bc... it's like... copyrighted?

Who knows, I don't mind either way :D hoped you enjoyed!

-ana