Fish Eyes

2

Being sick sucked. It sucked ass.

I had a week to rid the cold from my body before my school started, but it seemed to hit harder than it usually did.

I had a tissue roll with me in bed and was playing basketball with the discards.

My eyes were so bad that I'd missed the lidless bin multiple times already, opting to deal with it the next time I stood up. That wouldn't be any time soon, at the rate I was going. The rug would not be happy with all that mucus in its knots.

I'd been watching a movie that's manuscript came from my favorite book at the time. This one was about a chronically ill girl (I always thought about what made that a trend) who fell in love with her next-door neighbor.

One hand was designated for blowing my snot and the other was to dig in my large bag of salt and vinegar chips.

My room glowed purple from the LED lights strung neatly across my ceiling. Purple was my standard; even when I turned the lights out, the walls were painted purple under them. Other than the bright color, my walls were pretty minimalistic. There was a medium-sized chalkboard on one side and lavender curtains strung along my window.

The maximalism came from the actual things that I had in the room. I had chests and barrels full of miscellaneous items I'd bought to fund my various, fleeting hobbies. my borrowed camera sat separate from all the disarray; I couldn't afford to break it.

Just as the part of the movie that always made me cry was about to come on, my eyes shifted to the camera on my dresser. I still had to return it to my dad. It reminded me of my incomplete application to the Young Art Institute summer fellowship, which was my latest personal project.

I didn't consider myself the artsy type, really. I wasn't really a bookworm either. I didn't think myself an intellectual. Even watching my movie, I didn't consider myself an expert on those either. I'd just rewatch my favorites over and over again.

"Fuck, what am I good at even?" I murmured to myself as I squinted at the TV and grabbed for another handful of chips. my eyes didn't need to be perfect for me to enjoy the flick; I'd memorized half the screenplay already and could visualize what I couldn't see.

Eventually, this squinting at the screen gave me a headache and I opted to flip my laptop open on the bed. The application was staring me right in the face.

My mouse cursor stumbled over the "field of interest" section. In reality, I knew I wasn't good enough at any of the things on the list to actually stand a chance against the thousands of other young people that'd be competing. However, if Dalia Glees wasn't anything else, she was unrealistic. Some might even say delusional. I believed in myself to measures far beyond what was reasonable, like a harmless Donald Trump. So, therefore, I was having trouble choosing just one subject area for my submission.

Poetry, sculpture, acting, spoken word, dance, they all seemed like pretty good possibilities. However, my eyes always landed on one option. Photography.

I hadn't wanted to accept my fate in the week past; I hadn't wanted it to end up being my last resort. But, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I wasn't any better at it than anything else on that list, but I had an out. I had resources.

Joy and Glee Photography Suite.

It was the family business I had refused to take part in; it was equal parts the reason for my happiness and the cause for my demise.

My parents had cofounded the space before I was even born. The photography scene in Atlanta had boomed in recent years, making it a major asset to both the city and to my fidelity. I had always lived a charmed and comfortable life; I'd never had to work for much.