Not really how it looks (and I made it small to be less gross!)
Today I finish my second week with a black eye. (It resulted from my pointed indifference to Sir Isaac Newton.)
A black eye, if the eye itself is not injured, does not change how you physically look at the world, but it definitely changes the way the world looks at you.
Women, after a few thoughtful glances, give you their seats in the subway.
Men (sorry!) look at you quizzically. They are sure something is wrong, but can’t seem to figure out exactly what it is. (They can’t quite see around your eyeglass lens.)
Children stare at you with an intensity that (one would think) was reserved for burn victims. Your sympathy for those with serious visible infirmities increases immeasurably under such stares. Winking at the children does no good.
Your face in the mirror freaks you out. Even more than usual. It’s not just that you’re way older than expected, your eye also reminds you of a dog’s, i.e. spotted.
Friends from poor and rural cultures tell you, with sincere relief, how lucky you are that the eye itself was undamaged. You feel suddenly silly to worry about whether the marks will go completely away.
In fact, after the purple deepens, it fades.
ManicDDaily 
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