Black. It had no feel, no attachment to his senses. Being blind meant that he was secluded in a way that only another blind man might understand. As a police officer, it was his job to make sure other were safe. He smiled grimly. It was a good day when he could use the John without whizzing all over the bowl. It would be cruel, cruel irony if someone slipped and died - their head cracked open by the cement floor - because of his inability to pee properly.

His smile died, grim though it had been. Black. Why did it have to be black? He had tried imagining colors to take the place of the soul-sucking darkness, but it had not worked. Therapy helped, talking about it helped, but not much. He needed to be useful.

Black. It used to be a little dress his wife would wear for a night out, now it was his entire life. Fate was a real bitch.