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WHEN MILO WAKES — HIS EYES HAVING BEEN assaulted by the blinding rays of the morning sun glaring through a gap in his curtains — he finds himself at his desk in his work clothes with an open book as a pillow.
He doesn't remember how he got here, only that he must have managed to drag himself up a flight and a half of stairs yesterday somehow and probably erased the process from his sleep-deprived brain after another late shift at the pizzeria.
A promising start to the Greatest Summer of His Life.
And, to add to the pile of things that have gone wrong within the first thirty seconds of his consciousness this morning, he realises he's slept with his contact lenses in. Which isn't good.
Milo doesn't consider himself a paranoid person, (which is probably a prerequisite of paranoia now that he thinks about it) but he's heard enough horror stories to scare him into taking his contacts out every night without fault. It's not a big deal, really. It was only one night—at least, this is what he tells himself as he fumbles blearily around the desk for his glasses. Unsuccessful, he decides to risk a semi-blind trip to the bathroom.
Living in what was once the attic means space is limited and the ceiling is slanted low to cause minor head injuries to anyone taller than five foot six (Milo does not fall under this category), but it's all Milo needs. While his desk and bed fill most of the space, a shelf filled mostly by books and vinyls, and a desk that's barely visible beneath final papers and empty Chinese takeout boxes from late-night cramming (of both food and historical timelines).
There are also plants, though unlike Anais, Milo doubts he could keep one alive for more than a couple of weeks without Lenore's aid, and Milo nearly knocks one entirely from its hook in his haste. His mother insists that he keep them there for reasons beyond him. Something about bad omens or restless spirits.
As Milo crosses the landing, he tries not to think about how his eyes are burning a little. And, how his vision's a little fuzzy.
"Milo?"
At the foot of the stairs is a gauzy silhouette of his mother holding a darker silhouette which Milo guesses could either be a bundled blanket, or the cat.
"Yes? Hi–" he says blinking rapidly in an attempt to bring the world back into focus, "I, uh... Can I take a raincheck on this conversation? I'll be back."
Before Lenore has the chance to respond, Milo ducks into the bathroom and goes straight to the mirror above the sink. In the misted glass, his reflection stares back — a hazy impressionist painting of himself. He takes out his contacts and splashes his face and eyes with icy water feeling considerably more awake. When Milo looks up at the mirror again he's startled by the sudden sharpness of his reflection despite his impaired vision. But what startles him the most is his complexion — no longer tawny, but a sickly, sallow hue. Even his dark eyes seem dimmed, almost faded.
