Disclaimer: Ocularly not mine.
A/N: Written for Challenge #012 – 'Eyes' at ygodrabble over on LiveJournal.
Same Difference
© Scribbler, August 2010.
Shizuka sat on her hands. The phrase 'psyching herself up' wasn't inappropriate, but neither was 'being a wuss'. She preferred the first, but her classmates would use the second. They were merciless that way.
It was weird how much people liked labels. It was like you weren't a real person until you had a nice neat label, like a post-it on your forehead, so everyone knew where you were supposed to fit and how to treat you. Everyone seemed to think blind kids were a separate group, but that was nonsense. 'Blind' was something you dealt with, not who you were.
Outsiders thought kids at the Institute were united because they shared the same affliction. As if. School was school. Calling it something else didn't make it different underneath, just like labelling someone 'blind' didn't supersede everything else that made them, who they were. A special school for 'visually challenged adolescents' had the same problems as a regular one. Anywhere you put a bunch of teenagers and authority figures inevitably developed cliques and a pecking order. Remote tribes in primitive countries had them, so Japan? Duh! And if the adults would quit pretending this was a perfect paradise, that would be peachy.
It made Shizuka so mad when outsiders treated the Institute like some safe haven, where nothing bad could ever happen, and 'real world' problems ceased to exist, because all the 'differently abled' were securely contained where they could 'get the help they needed'. She snaffled an advertising leaflet once, when she could still read if she squinted hard and didn't mind losing an evening to a migraine. The language made her want to barf. She never used to mind political correctness; now she just wished someone would call a spade a spade without wanting to counsel the class about how all spades, even rusty and dented ones, could be useful and important members of the garden shed.
She peered through her dark glasses. She had to wear them, or screw up her eyes all the time. Neither guise was attractive. Still, both beat wearing a blindfold, the way partially-sighted people used to stop sunlight stabbing their weak retinas. Around her, dozens of heads swayed like they could see the marks appearing on their screens. School really was still school, no matter where you were. Popular girls still made fun of geeks, bullies still preyed on the weak, teachers still gave detention (although here they were usually held in the counsellor's office) and whether on paper or computer, tests were still evil.
There was a clear division between students who had always been blind, those who only recently lost their sight, and those in the process of losing it, like Shizuka. It was reverse snobbery; long-time blind kids looked down their noses, dismissing others' suffering as second-rate. They read Braille fluently and already knew how to use white sticks. Some had guide dogs, or were on waiting lists. Students like Shizuka were still learning their limitations and made good victims. As well as regular lessons, they had classes on how to function in everyday life without their sight, preparing for the day they could no longer see. She wasn't stupid, but she still heard 'retard' whispered between lessons.
She hated writing tests. Today the teacher wanted essays about role models written using Braille keyboards. Shizuka's Braille sucked and her mind was blank. She never scored well. Her mother used to say how much smarter she was than her no-good thug brother, when she still talked about him or Shizuka's father. It was the only time she mentioned them, and the only thing they fought about, though not often. Shizuka mostly let her rant. She wanted her mother to think about Katsuya and not forget him. Then she started at the Institute, got her first report card, and Mrs. Kawaii stopped mentioning her son. It seemed there was no point. He no longer served even the smallest purpose.
To Shizuka, however, he was an inspiration. Katsuya never let anything get him down. They met less than once a year, and phoned only on birthdays or Christmas, but he never stopped being cheerful. Unlike the Institute adults, Shizuka knew his positivity was genuine. He was stuck at a crummy school, in a crummy apartment, surrounded by crummy people, but he never let it show. He was her Big Brother, who had watched out for her when Dad got nasty, or when she felt low about the disease slowly robbing her of her sight, and he would never stop being amazing, top of his class or not.
She started to type: My hero is my brother…
Fin.
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