Delia Ainsworth

"Why don't you go outside?" my father asked me hesitantly, with every intention of forcing me outside of the house for the day.

I sat on a stool in the kitchen, facing the bar-like table that held a half-eaten bowl of Cheerios. Milk was splattered in several places around the table, and the spoon plopped into the bowl, ready to fall out.

"That's okay, dad," I answered with a sigh, giving my father a look of disgust. I suddenly stood up from the stool recalling the mess in front of me and headed to the sink with my cluttered bowl.

My father saw me, looked at me earnestly, and soon began to protest. "I can do that, Delia. Don't worry about it."

"It's fine," I said, as I refused to allow my father to take the bowl from my grasp. I marched quickly to the sink, so that I could prevent my father from taking the bowl. Soon, I found myself falling, tripping over my own two feet and landing on the ground. The Cheerios and the milk splattered in a million different directions on the hard wood floor and even on parts of the Oriental rug that my dead mum cherished so dearly. My arm landed on the spoon, and it left a mark and began to bleed.

Overall, my injuries were not too terrible. I've had worse. That was just a minor wound and a few bruises. I would cope.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" my father hurried over to help me up. I smiled as I grabbed a hold of his hand and tugged on it to bring my two feet to the ground once more.

"I'm fine," I answered, regaining my balance. "I'm just going to get a Band-Aid and then I'll clean this all up. Sorry about the mess."

"It's okay," my father answered, in a somewhat dual sided tone, happy, but worried. He was always too kind with his words. It really wasn't fine. I had done it too many times ever since I had gotten that dreaded diagnosis.

I was six years old when my problems first started… or at least when they started noticing my problems. I joined a gymnastics class and the instructor noticed I had this terrible balance problem. I couldn't walk a step on the balance beam and I fell every time that I jumped on the trampoline. Mrs. Stevens told my parents that it was unusual for a child to be as uncoordinated as I was. My parents grew angry at her for saying such a thing about their perfect princess. They took me out of the class and they didn't think about the problem for several more years.

When I was twelve, I had one of those vision and hearing tests that the schools required. I had been to the eye doctor before, but nothing had ever been wrong until that test. I had trouble seeing the tiny numbers, written at the bottom of the display. And when I put on the headphones to listen to the sounds that I was supposed to identify with a raised hand, I did not hear much of anything. I saw other kids around me raising their hands quite a few times and I just heard a noise once or twice. I soon improvised, copying off of the others, wanting to be normal, but I could tell by the proctor's expression that something was wrong. I had failed the test.

My parents were notified of the results shortly afterwards. They took me to specialist and soon, it was determined that I had Usher Syndrome, which causes hearing impairment and retinitis pigmentosa, which causes blindness over time. Some people with the disease also can have balance problems. So that episode from gymnastics class was a real concern. Mrs. Stevens was right and my parents felt awful for ever doubting her.

Since I was twelve, I knew enough to know what that meant. I was going blind and deaf. I would have trouble walking without falling, just because. I had a disease. There was something terribly wrong with me. I asked my parents to find me a cure, but they couldn't. No matter how much they wanted to fix me there was nothing that they could do.

I fell into a depression for several months. My parents dragged me to therapy and it took me those months to realize that I had to cherish the time that I had left. For awhile I would be able to see and hear and balance problems weren't at all too bad. I just had to be careful.

When I was fourteen, my vision problems grew worse. I had night blindness, which meant that I was not able to see in dim light. It sucked, to put it lightly. None of my friends knew about what was wrong with me and when I bumped into the lamppost and their stereo system and whatever else was around at night with light out, they would get upset with me. I just couldn't let anyone know that I had a disability, even if I had to give up those friends.

At the end of the school year, right after I had turned 16, I began to have blind spots. My vision was fuzzy and there was nothing I could do to stop it. My hearing was starting to get worse as well, and I was on my way to becoming completely deaf. Not exactly what your average teenager goes through.

So my father suggested this trip. He planned on renting this summer house at the beach. He told me it was a good way to get away from the realities of the world, but I knew that he meant for me to have an opportunity to see and hear the beach for the last time before my world went completely dark. He knew that the beach was one of my favorite places in the world, with its peaceful atmosphere and sounds of tranquility. He knew that I would enjoy it as a last memory of sight and sound. Even though I went along with it, I wasn't sure if I agreed with him.

I ran to my room to grab a Band-Aid. I had three boxes of them, as the balance problems seemed to get worse, along with the vision and hearing problems. I was unusual in that way, as with most cases balance was not a huge deal. Heck, in most cases, there wasn't even a balance problem. Lucky me.

I quickly applied it to my wound, after putting on some antibacterial ointment to prevent infection because on top of everything else, I didn't need an infection as well.

I then walked slowly back to the kitchen, ready to clean the spill I had made. Before long, I noticed that the spill was gone, and everything was cleaned. "Dad!" I shouted. "I said I would clean it up."

"I didn't mind doing it," my father answered. "It's not a big deal."

"I said I would clean it up," I repeated, with anger evident in my tone. I just wanted to be normal, and to be treated normally. My father was caring and kind and a good man, but he just didn't understand. I only had a little while longer until I wouldn't even be able to dress myself without problems. I needed to be treated as a regular teenager until then.

My father had on a look of sympathy. He was really trying. I knew it wasn't all that easy to put up with me… not being normal and everything. I don't think I was exactly what he was expecting when he begged so vehemently for a baby. He probably should have chosen the child to the left at me at the orphanage that day.

I couldn't take my father's look. I could see rather distortedly for at least a little while, but his expression was not what I wanted to see. I ran to the door, opened it, and started to run outside.

Of course, I tripped on the way down the stairs, but I kept going. I slowed down in pace, but I kept going. It was the first time I really took a look at what was outside of the summer home that I was living in. I had shied away from the public because I didn't want them to see me. Even though I still had my sight, I was deformed.

I had scars and bruises all around my body from all of my falls. I didn't want to show off my body around all of those perfect teens, with the perfect trims and ideal summer tans. I would look hideous. Me, with my pale skin, and shoulder length black hair, displaying scars that looked like battle wounds... I just couldn't do it.

Even now, without a bathing suit on, I was still subconscious, but I had to get away from the house for awhile. And of course, I was wearing a sundress at that moment. It cut off right above my knees, displaying a rather large cut that had just formed days ago, and it barely had sleeves, leaving my arms bare for onlookers to notice any other wounds there. I was not a pretty sight.

I walked in the opposite direction of the crowd. There was this small cliff that no one touched, so I went for it. I started to climb it, as it did not seem too high. I stumbled several times along the way, but the kinds of bruises that formed from the climb no longer hurt me. I was all too used to it to even flinch or squirm.

I finally made it to the top, and I had to admit that it was a lot higher than I imagined it to be. I settled into a sitting position as I dangled my feet off the edge, letting the air press coolly against my legs. I listened carefully for the pounding of the waves, but with my dimmed senses it was difficult. I used to enjoy the sound of the waves; now, it made me depressed.

I tried to watch the sunset, but, with my fading vision, it was no longer as clear or pretty as I once knew. My father wanted me to visit the ocean, so that my last memories of sight and hearing would be pleasant, but they just weren't. It was such a struggle to even try to enjoy the sounds of the waves or the beauty of the sunset.

I felt the tears start to form in my eyes and before long streams of wetness came pouring down my face. I covered my face with my hands and I started rocking back and forth, terrified of the life that was laid out in front of me.