Chapter Two
Thanks to my reviewers, you're all so kind!
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I heard the loud whinny of a phone.
I sat straight up. Where was the phone and why was it so dark?
Then I remembered.
The phone continued jangling close to my right side. I figured the phone was on the nightstand, probably next to a lamp. I felt a savage urge to rip the bandages from my face, jump up from the bed I was on, and scream at the doctor that I could see. I was cured, my eyesight had returned, and I was healthy, fit to return home.
The iciness which had gripped me earlier returned suddenly in full force. It was as if I had been plunged into the waters off New York coast.
The phone clucked noisily.
"Answer the phone!" said a gnarly voice from my left. "I'm trying to sleep over here."
I didn't reply to whomever the voice belonged. I had heard the noisy grumblings of the orderlies and of the patient himself as they had moved him in. I had pretended to be asleep then. It had been remarkably easy to hide my bandaged face in the pillows and be motionless. I wanted the bandages off my face, but West had told me that the optometry doctor would be in shortly and I was to wait until then.
The phone continued to bark.
"Answer the damn phone, kid, before I break your leg," growled the gnarly voice.
Apparently Mister Asshole hadn't realized that I was . . . blind.
The icy feeling drove deeper, penetrated every fiber of my being, drowned me.
"Goddamn you, kid, I'm going to kill you," Mister Asshole snarled, and I heard a harsh metallic sound. I kept my face determinedly to the right. Why didn't I just answer him?
The phone rang determinedly.
"Don't you even act like you're asleep!" There were a few soft footsteps, and then a loud crash.
Startled, I yelped, "What's wrong?"
"Damn fool," Mister Asshole yelled, half his voice in pain. "Somebody get in here and get me up!"
I felt increasing vulnerability. Damn my eyes! If only I could see, I could help, and I wouldn't be stuck here acting like some damn harpy!
"Are you alright?" I shouted.
"Shut up, damn kid, it's your fault I'm down here," he hollered back at me. I moved my head, trying my hardest to hear what was wrong. Yeah, hear what was wrong. That was one for the history books. I saw only darkness. I wanted to scream.
The phone finally stopped wailing, but the sound was replaced by a loud commotion.
"Mr. Johnson!" yelped a voice that I recognized as West. "What happened?"
"That damn kid's phone was ringing," Mister Asshole, aka Mr. Johnson, roared, "and he wouldn't answer it! I couldn't sleep!"
"Mr. Johnson, when you're here for surgery, it is not a good idea to be prowling around early in the morning!" West exclaimed. "You're crazy, Mr. Johnson. Help me get him back to his bed, guys."
I heard more loud footsteps clatter to the left, the squeaking of a bed, metal against metal, grunts, groans, and finally a little silence.
"I hope you realize that you shouldn't be out of bed, Mr. Johnson," West said loudly. "It is very bad in your condition. What were you-"
"That kid's phone was annoying me!" Mr. Johnson protested hotly.
"- thinking and that now you should stay in bed," West finished, completely ignoring his patient. "Now, surgery will begin in approximately five hours. No more excursions until then, do you hear me?"
"Who can't?" complained Mr. Johnson. "You're talking like I'm deaf. And tell that kid to answer his phone!"
There was no reply, and then more footsteps. I inclined my head to the left, where they were coming from.
"How are you feeling, Chris?" West asked, and I felt him grab my wrist. I almost jerked it back.
"Considering, I'm not doing too good," I told him. "Can you at least take off the bandages?"
"The optometry specialist will be in here in a few moments," West said, ignoring my question. "He will check your eyes and give his prognosis."
"Can you take off the bandages?" I repeated.
He ignored me again, and I heard the soft rustle of plastic. "Well, I wonder who called. You still need to talk to your parents, don't you? The police have informed them you're in the hospital, so I suppose that was them who were calling."
"Can I take off the bandages?" I pleaded.
There was the barely audible sound of a door swinging open.
"Now, I'll dial-"
"West, the boy asked you a question." The new voice was frail sounding, worn. "I thought you'd learn by now to answer your patients' questions."
"Who's this wacko?" I heard Mr. Johnson yell from his bed.
"This wacko is a doctor," the voice replied. "Not a great one, but one to make a living, I'd say."
"This is Dr. Jerry Parker, Chris," said West in an uneasy voice, "he's the optometry specialist."
"Stop gesturing, West," Parker said loudly. "The boy can't see."
I felt an odd twinge of pain at the words.
"I'll examine him here," Parker continued, "no need to get all riled up and take him to my office."
There was a scraping of a chair and then I felt two hands grip the sides of my head. I jerked back, but the hands held firm.
"Don't move, boy, I'm just taking off the bandages," Parker reprimanded, and I relaxed uneasily. "Shoo, West, go and see your other patients."
"But-"
"I said get." There was a huffy rustle of footsteps, the click as the door swung close, and then Parker sighed. "He's my best friend's boy, but he should have stayed out of medical practice, that one. He thinks it's all a game, but who am I to say? Bright as a bird, but lacks the sense."
I felt a sudden rush of affection for the doctor.
"Now, what's your name again, boy?"
"Chris Irvine," I answered, shivering as his cold fingers gently stripped away the bandages covering my face.
"Don't worry, boy, you're fine. Ah, now open your eyes."
I felt my eyelids slide open. Any second now, yes, I'd see something, I'd see the doctor's face, my uppity bedmate, and Parker would announce me clear and fit to return home. Any second now, I just needed adjusting, that was it, just some adjusting . . . I'd see a drab hospital room, a small door, and some white sheets and walls . . .
I saw darkness with white specks.
The icy feeling in my stomach intensified, swallowed me.
Parker sighed. "You can't see, can you, boy?"
I didn't answer.
"Answer me, I don't have all day."
"N-no."
It came out a petrified whisper.
"Well, let me see now," Parker carried on, and his fingers touched my skin. They were death's hands, these, and they touched me, leaving me intensely cold. I felt him prodding my eyelids, the flesh around my eyes, and sliding my eyelids open. I recoiled as a stab of pain shot through me. "That hurt, did it?" He touched the eye itself and I flinched. "Sorry about that, boy . . . this hurt?"
Slaps of heat attacked the skin surrounding my eyes and I concurred with Parker's words.
"Hmm . . . yes, classic signs, this is . . ."
"What are?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Don't interrupt me, boy, I'm looking," he said and I was silenced. "Hmm . . . not scratched, penetrated . . . interesting . . . boy, did West say what kind of acid it was that was in your eyes?"
I tried to think back, but the brief explanation that West had given me after his gut-wrenching blow gave no answers. "He didn't say, just said it was an unknown type of acid. The police are supposed to come in and ask me questions later, after."
"Didn't ask you about your personal life, boy, but that was interesting . . . you were walking, you say?"
I swallowed, still lost in the darkness in front of me. "Yes, just taking a nice short walk."
He made an appreciative noise, and finally his fingers stopped probing. "Lie back," he told me, and I heard the metallic scraping of a chair. "Be very still. I'm going to use a metallic instrument, and it may be uncomfortable, but I understand in your line of work you're used to pain."
I would have said yes, but he pushed me back against the pillows and his hands again went to my eyes. I felt a cold thing pressed into my eyelids, into my eyes, and there were indeed sharp twinges of pain, but I fought them off. Again, he finally stopped, and I heard him shift as he sat on the chair.
"You may sit up," he said, and his voice was troubled. My stomach took a slow swoop.
"Well?" I croaked, suddenly trembling.
"Well, boy, I'm not going to lie to you," Parker said, his voice sounding flat and tired. "You're in a bad way, the worst there possibly can be. That acid was horrible to you. You're completely blind in your right eye. There is nothing I can do, nor any other optometrist for that matter, that can restore vision in that eye. Your left eye is better, though not by much. You have some vision left, only enough to make out black fuzzy shapes, I'm sure. With some minor surgery, you can be helped, but even after that, you'll need a strong pair of glasses or a strong contact." He paused delicately. "I'm sorry, Chris, but you'll never see the same again." He sounded like he meant it.
There was the same hollowness inside. I felt shock worm its way through my body.
"You can't do anything?" I asked in a voice that sounded nothing like my own.
"We can do the surgery to repair your left eye tomorrow," he said. "But other than that, there is nothing."
"Thank you," I said, in the same emotionless tone.
"You'll need therapy," he said. "You'll need to learn how to live with partial vision. Dr. West will arrange that, I'm sure. Tomorrow the surgery will be done, if you wish, and soon after, the therapy can begin. You should be cleared to leave the hospital in two weeks at the most, if your therapy goes well." He hesitated. "Remember that I said you still have some vision in your left eye. In a few moments, that should return. You'll see black fuzzy shapes. I don't want you out of bed unsupervised."
"I won't," I promised dully.
He hesitated, and then I felt him pat my arm. "Don't worry, boy, you'll have some vision, and that's more than most in your case, so don't be moping. You'll be back on your feet soon. Would you like the bandages off?"
"Yes," I said, then I wondered. It ached to think. "What do my eyes look like?"
"Oh, they're not sealed shut or anything," Parker chuckled. "They look milky, like there's some sort of covering over the blue irises. The left eye is better than the right, of course, not so milky. It'll attract attention, I gander, but not so much people stare at you in the streets, though I'm sure you already get that, don't you, boy?"
I barely registered his words. "Yeah, sure."
He sighed. "I'll get West to prescribe you some pills or something," he said, and I heard him stepping away. "I'll arrange the surgery tomorrow, and I'll be dropping by later today, no doubt."
"Thank you," I said after him, but he had already gone.
I slumped back against the pillows, lost in the darkness in front of me.
"Blind, huh?" I heard Mr. Johnson say across the room.
"Yes," I answered hollowly.
"That's why you didn't answer the phone?" he quizzed.
I slipped down and turned away from him, hoping he'd take the hint. I felt my eyelids slip shut, but it didn't matter, since I could see nothing as it was. "Yes."
He didn't ask anymore question, and I was glad.
The darkness in front of me was total, complete.
Despair wasn't even as dark.
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"Mom, you don't have to fly down here," I insisted into the phone. It felt so familiar in my hand; I didn't even have to see it to know I was holding it right. "No, Mom, please, just stay home. It's not like I'm dying or anything. Please just stay home."
"Chris, we're coming down there," my mother insisted. "You're our only son and we want to make sure you're okay."
I made an exaggerated noise to Bernard, who made a small laugh to acknowledge me. He had insisted with his questions after I had come out of my depression, and despite myself, I had found myself getting along with him. He was much older than me, probably by twenty years at the least, but I found him surprisingly able to get on with. He was the only real person I knew in the place, anyway, and the only one I could talk to. He wasn't Mr. Asshole, to say the least.
"I am fine," I answered.
"You're going into surgery tomorrow, please! You need our moral support!"
"I do not need moral support! I'll be drugged before the surgery, high after it!" I practically shouted into the receiver.
"Well, we can talk to you before and after, it's no buts, you can't stop us!"
"You're really hurting my mental psyche," I growled.
"I don't care about your mental psyche, mister, you are still my son and I still care about you." Her voice was etched with worry. "Tell me what the doctor said, Chris. Wait, I'll put you on speaker phone." There was a click and then a small burst of static.
"Chris, are you okay?" my father burst out.
I rolled my eyes without realizing it. "Yes, Dad, I'm perfectly normal."
"Your mother said something about your eyes."
"Yes, but he wouldn't tell me what!" my mother said angrily. "All he said was that he was okay and that he had hurt his eyes."
I felt the sagging of the burden on my chest, weighting me down. "Yeah, it's got something to do with my eyes."
"Well, how bad?" my father said impatiently. "You can still see, can't you?"
I was silent. Pain welled up to me and I wanted to claw the darkness away from my face, claw the veil that surrounded me down and tear it to shreds.
"Chris?" my mother asked again, shaking slightly.
"You can still see, can't you?" my father repeated, sounding slightly horrified.
"No," I said, the words wrenching themselves from me with bursts of pain.
There was a silence on the other end, and then my father stammered, "What?"
"There was an accident," I said swiftly, running my words together, knowing that if I did it fast enough, I wouldn't have to dwell on them, wouldn't have to acknowledge the horrible fact that they were true. "There was an explosion and there was acid. It . . . got into my eyes." Sorrow was choking me. Not even I could speak fast enough to outthink the pain inside me and I had made my living on speaking fast. "I can't see out of my right eye, and I can only see fuzzy shapes out of the left." My voice, again, was that strangely calm, even though my insides were ripping apart. "I'm having surgery tomorrow to repair what's left of the left eye, but even after that I won't be able to see as well as I used to. I'll have to wear glasses or contacts. I'll be partially blind the rest of my life."
I felt the choking dread inside me again, tearing at my insides, yanking around the yolk that made up my inside.
There was silence.
"Yeah, well, I've got to go," I said shortly.
"Chris, wait, let us talk-"
"If you want to come, fine," I cut off smoothly. "You know where it is, but I've already told you I'm fine. I'll see you later."
Ignoring the bursts of sounds from the phone, I replaced the receiver on my lap and opened my left eye as wide as I could. A fuzzy black shape presented itself. It looked exactly as everything else did. I touched the phone and I couldn't even see my hand. All I saw was another dark shape against the lighter shade of the phone.
"This is useless," I growled, throwing my head around and finding a shape that could have been the bedside table, or Bernard's bed. It was useless to try and see this way. It was better to keep my eyes shut. "This is totally useless." I grabbed the phone and placed it on the side on my side, angrily yanking the cord down. "Is West here?" I asked Bernard.
"No," he answered in his weathered voice from the right. "He left awhile ago, kid. So are your parents coming down?"
"I think they are," I said, closing my eyes into the familiar darkness and slumping back against the pillows. From the right, I could hear the chatter of Bernard's TV. "I told them not to, but they are."
"Kid, you're crazy. I'd give anything to have my family down here."
"Yeah, well, I don't," I said rudely, trying to tune out the sounds coming from Bernard's TV. It was useless trying to listen when I couldn't see anything.
"Punk," Bernard said, and despite myself, I laughed. "Punk wrestling kid."
I froze.
"What's wrong?" Bernard said, alarmed, apparently seeing my rapidness. "Did that damn doctor give you the wrong pill?"
I didn't answer him, but fumbled on my side for the phone. I felt its shape and carefully picked it up, feeling the buttons.
"Who are you calling?" Bernard asked loudly. "Hello, I'm talking to you, kid."
"I know, but this is an important call." I felt the buttons. "Oh damn," I growled as I accidentally pressed one and pushed the receiver back on the hook. I was staring straight ahead and I wondered if I opened my left eye, if I could see. No, probably not, I had already tried that experiment. I lifted the phone again, holding it low on my lap, my head high. Carefully I felt the buttons. Breathing shallowly, I dialed the numbers.
"Hello, this is Pizza Hut, how may I-"
"Damn!" I slammed the phone back on the receiver.
"Wrong number?" Bernard guessed innocently.
"I can't see the fucking numbers," I almost yelled at him, again feeling the buttons, this time dialing more carefully.
"Hello, this is live adult line," said a seductive female voice. "Would you like to talk to a live male or female? Either one will surely make your day, let us help you to find the lust inside-"
"Damn it!" I almost screamed, slamming the phone back down again.
"Hey," Bernard said, with a trace of concern in his voice. "Don't break the phone, Chris; you'll have to buy it. You know how damn cheap these hospitals are."
Barely hearing him, I again dialed.
"Welcome, you've reached the CIA tip hotline, if you would like to leave a tip involving an unsolved case or terrorist threat, press-"
Yelling incoherently, I slammed the phone down again. I wanted to break it, I wanted to break everything! I slumped back against the pillows, growling deep in my throat, refusing to let any tears into my eyes. I could still cry, couldn't I? I still had tear ducts, didn't I?
"Well, hello," said West, apparently having just entered the room. He was talking jubilantly. "How are you both?"
"Not that you care," Bernard snorted, "but Chris is trying to make a phone call."
I didn't answer, and turned away from his voice, hopefully having my eyes in the other direction. I still saw the blurred shapes, nothing but a pattern of black and white shapes.
"Is that true, Chris?" West asked as he tapped closer.
Oh, just tell him, he can dial the number for you anyway. "Yes," I answered with as much spite in my voice I could muster. I turned my head back toward his voice. I felt the pressure of the phone leave my lap and I flinched. He had come up on me so quietly, even though his feet were noisy.
"Tell me the number," he said.
I recited the number to him. He handed me back the receiver, pushing the phone into my hand until he was sure I was grasping it firmly. I heard no footsteps, and asked, "Are you gone?"
He didn't answer, but Bernard said, "Nope, he's standing right next to your bed."
"Will you please leave?" I asked, trying to be polite.
"Of course," he said, almost automatically, and I heard him clomping away. There was a slight rustle of the door and Bernard complied with my decision, saying, "He's gone. Damn bastard is a sicko."
I started to agree, and then a soft female voice asked, "Hello?"
"Hi, Karen," I said, forcing my voice to be cheerful. "It's Chris."
"Oh, hi Chris, how are you? Do you want to speak to Kurt?"
"Yes, that would be good," I told her and there was a small silence.
"Why are you stalking me, you sick freak?" Kurt Angle asked as soon as he got on the line.
"I'm not stalking you," I said patiently. "I'm actually amazed I got away from you, you sick freak."
"You know, when you start stealing my words, you know I've got to get angry," Kurt said, and I laughed. Kurt was my best friend inside the WWE and if anyone could cheer me up, the Olympic Hero could. "So why are you calling from a hospital?"
"How'd you know?" I asked, surprised.
"You know, Chris, this is the modern day and age of caller ID," Kurt said in an aggravated voice.
"Shut your trap, Olympic Zero," I told him, "you suck."
"When you start sounding like the fans, then I have to worry," he said, and I laughed again. "So why the hospital bit? You didn't get hurt last night, did you?"
"Well, not at the show," I said nervously, suddenly feeling very foolish for calling him. Why did I have to call him? So I could bitch at him? I had a reason. I had to tell him . . . what? That I was blind now? That I was blind and that . . . I would have to quit?
NO!
I couldn't quit! This was my life! Wrestling was my life, it was my passion, it was the only thing that kept me alive!
This wouldn't hamper me; Parker had said I'd regain my ability to see. I would be able to see. I had to tell Vince, but he . . .
Did I have to tell Vince?
"Chris, if you're trying to prank call me, I suggest you do it another time," Kurt said, and I detected a hint of sleepiness and anger. "My daughter is asleep and she practically woke up when you called. So are you hurt or what?"
"Yeah," I said, still thinking.
"Badly?" he asked, and now there was a hint of concern. "Are you alright?"
Did I have to tell Vince, did I need to tell him?
"Chris!"
"Yeah, sort of," I answered, plunging ahead before I could stop myself. I gave the same brief account of what had transpired as I had to my parents. I said it breathlessly, and when he I finished, there was silence. "Kurt?"
"My God, Chris, you're blind?"
I laughed, a laugh that came out so roughly it sounded more like a dog coughing. "Well, to put it so eloquently, Kurt, I guess you could say yes, I am."
"But . . ."
"But what?"
"You're okay?"
"Well, I'm alive, so yeah, I guess I am."
"That's good." He sounded hurt. "Listen, I think I'll fly down there and help you out, you know? You shouldn't be alone now."
"Oh, that's very touching, really." It came out rudely. "But I'm fine."
"Then why did you call me?" He didn't sound angry; instead, he was merely requesting why I had called.
"Because . . . because . . ." I trailed. Why had I called?
"I thought so," he said in that calm voice of his I knew masked whatever feeling he was hiding. "You don't have anyone to lean on, besides your parents, and you need some friends now. Don't worry, Chris, you'll get through this."
"Kurt . . ."
"No buts, I'm coming down there. I'll call Vince-"
"NO!"
Bernard gave a yelp as he heard my forced cry and I was surprised that West didn't come bursting through the door, yelling, "Tarry ho!"
"What?" Kurt asked, as if he had not just gone deaf from my shouting.
"If you didn't hear me, Kurt, I said no," I said quietly.
"Why not?" he asked, sounding quizzical.
"I just don't want you to, Kurt, please," I pleaded.
"But you've got to tell him, Chris, this is serious."
"I know it's serious, but I just don't want to tell him. I'm afraid of what he's going to say."
"What is he going to say that you're so scared of?"
I felt my hand grasp something that I assumed was the blanket covering my legs. I seized it immediately, finding what I assumed what a loose string, tying it around my finger.
"Chris, answer my question."
"What do you think he'll say, Kurt? Here I was last night, fine and dandy, and now here I am, partially impaired for the rest of my life." The words spilled out from me as water does from a fountain, and I didn't know how to stop it. "You know what he did to Shawn."
"Chris, he didn't make Shawn leave," Kurt said, quietly.
"Shawn left because Vince pressured him!" The words were shouting now. "And that was just his back! What do you think he'll say to me? Let me go with a nice pension?"
"Chris, you know Vince wouldn't do that." Kurt's voice was infuriatingly calm. "You said it yourself; you'd get some of your sight back."
"So what, he'd let me stay on the sidelines?"
"Chris, you're not being rational-"
"I'm telling you, Kurt, like I've told everybody; I cannot stay on the sidelines! Fuck, if he took me out, I'd die."
"Chris, you are not being rational, you're thinking crazy-"
"I am thinking perfectly rationally," I said through gritted teeth.
"No, you're not. You've suffered the worst shock a person can have. It's normal not to think rationally."
"I. Am. Thinking. Rationally," I growled.
"Chris, look, I won't call him, alright? But I am coming down there, and you and I are going to have this discussion in private."
"You are not," I snarled.
"Oh yeah," Kurt said, "what are you going to do about it? Strangle me with the phone cord?"
"You are not funny. You are not coming down here. I didn't call you so you could come down here-"
"Then what did you call me for?" he demanded.
I didn't say anything.
"Point in case," he said quietly. "Well, I'll be there . . . when are you having surgery?"
"Two in the afternoon," I said, "but you are not coming!"
"Well, okay, two," he continued as if I had not spoken. "Hmm, we've got Smackdown tomorrow, the last taping of ours, so . . . I'll be there the day after tomorrow. I just better hear you butt saying how thankful you are for me forking up two hundred bucks for airfare."
"Kurt, listen to my words, feel them. YOU ARE NOT COMING."
"Right," he said brightly. "Be strong, Chris. You'll get through just fine. Well, talk to you soon, Chris. Be strong."
"KURT!" I roared furiously, but it was too late. I heard only a stale dial tone.
I felt the guardrail of my bed and pitched the phone in its cradle over the side. I heard the satisfying crash as it collided with the floor.
Bernardo barked sarcastically, "Oh, that's just great, kid. It's smashed. What the hell got you all riled up?"
"Nothing," I snarled at him, and tried to sink as far down as I could into the bed, closing my useless eyes. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to questions to end, the horrifying feeling I felt whenever I breathed.
If I had been a spectator, I probably would have said that person in my predicament was overacting. Life went on, you got over it, and eventually you grew used to the fact that you'd never see again. In fact, I'd say that the surgery would restore your eyesight and ask what the person was worrying about, they would see again. There was never any reason to lose hope and embrace despair. As an afterthought, I'd kick the person for ever feeling such helplessness and tell them that they were overacting.
I might as well be kicking myself.
I heard the loud whinny of a phone.
I sat straight up. Where was the phone and why was it so dark?
Then I remembered.
The phone continued jangling close to my right side. I figured the phone was on the nightstand, probably next to a lamp. I felt a savage urge to rip the bandages from my face, jump up from the bed I was on, and scream at the doctor that I could see. I was cured, my eyesight had returned, and I was healthy, fit to return home.
The iciness which had gripped me earlier returned suddenly in full force. It was as if I had been plunged into the waters off New York coast.
The phone clucked noisily.
"Answer the phone!" said a gnarly voice from my left. "I'm trying to sleep over here."
I didn't reply to whomever the voice belonged. I had heard the noisy grumblings of the orderlies and of the patient himself as they had moved him in. I had pretended to be asleep then. It had been remarkably easy to hide my bandaged face in the pillows and be motionless. I wanted the bandages off my face, but West had told me that the optometry doctor would be in shortly and I was to wait until then.
The phone continued to bark.
"Answer the damn phone, kid, before I break your leg," growled the gnarly voice.
Apparently Mister Asshole hadn't realized that I was . . . blind.
The icy feeling drove deeper, penetrated every fiber of my being, drowned me.
"Goddamn you, kid, I'm going to kill you," Mister Asshole snarled, and I heard a harsh metallic sound. I kept my face determinedly to the right. Why didn't I just answer him?
The phone rang determinedly.
"Don't you even act like you're asleep!" There were a few soft footsteps, and then a loud crash.
Startled, I yelped, "What's wrong?"
"Damn fool," Mister Asshole yelled, half his voice in pain. "Somebody get in here and get me up!"
I felt increasing vulnerability. Damn my eyes! If only I could see, I could help, and I wouldn't be stuck here acting like some damn harpy!
"Are you alright?" I shouted.
"Shut up, damn kid, it's your fault I'm down here," he hollered back at me. I moved my head, trying my hardest to hear what was wrong. Yeah, hear what was wrong. That was one for the history books. I saw only darkness. I wanted to scream.
The phone finally stopped wailing, but the sound was replaced by a loud commotion.
"Mr. Johnson!" yelped a voice that I recognized as West. "What happened?"
"That damn kid's phone was ringing," Mister Asshole, aka Mr. Johnson, roared, "and he wouldn't answer it! I couldn't sleep!"
"Mr. Johnson, when you're here for surgery, it is not a good idea to be prowling around early in the morning!" West exclaimed. "You're crazy, Mr. Johnson. Help me get him back to his bed, guys."
I heard more loud footsteps clatter to the left, the squeaking of a bed, metal against metal, grunts, groans, and finally a little silence.
"I hope you realize that you shouldn't be out of bed, Mr. Johnson," West said loudly. "It is very bad in your condition. What were you-"
"That kid's phone was annoying me!" Mr. Johnson protested hotly.
"- thinking and that now you should stay in bed," West finished, completely ignoring his patient. "Now, surgery will begin in approximately five hours. No more excursions until then, do you hear me?"
"Who can't?" complained Mr. Johnson. "You're talking like I'm deaf. And tell that kid to answer his phone!"
There was no reply, and then more footsteps. I inclined my head to the left, where they were coming from.
"How are you feeling, Chris?" West asked, and I felt him grab my wrist. I almost jerked it back.
"Considering, I'm not doing too good," I told him. "Can you at least take off the bandages?"
"The optometry specialist will be in here in a few moments," West said, ignoring my question. "He will check your eyes and give his prognosis."
"Can you take off the bandages?" I repeated.
He ignored me again, and I heard the soft rustle of plastic. "Well, I wonder who called. You still need to talk to your parents, don't you? The police have informed them you're in the hospital, so I suppose that was them who were calling."
"Can I take off the bandages?" I pleaded.
There was the barely audible sound of a door swinging open.
"Now, I'll dial-"
"West, the boy asked you a question." The new voice was frail sounding, worn. "I thought you'd learn by now to answer your patients' questions."
"Who's this wacko?" I heard Mr. Johnson yell from his bed.
"This wacko is a doctor," the voice replied. "Not a great one, but one to make a living, I'd say."
"This is Dr. Jerry Parker, Chris," said West in an uneasy voice, "he's the optometry specialist."
"Stop gesturing, West," Parker said loudly. "The boy can't see."
I felt an odd twinge of pain at the words.
"I'll examine him here," Parker continued, "no need to get all riled up and take him to my office."
There was a scraping of a chair and then I felt two hands grip the sides of my head. I jerked back, but the hands held firm.
"Don't move, boy, I'm just taking off the bandages," Parker reprimanded, and I relaxed uneasily. "Shoo, West, go and see your other patients."
"But-"
"I said get." There was a huffy rustle of footsteps, the click as the door swung close, and then Parker sighed. "He's my best friend's boy, but he should have stayed out of medical practice, that one. He thinks it's all a game, but who am I to say? Bright as a bird, but lacks the sense."
I felt a sudden rush of affection for the doctor.
"Now, what's your name again, boy?"
"Chris Irvine," I answered, shivering as his cold fingers gently stripped away the bandages covering my face.
"Don't worry, boy, you're fine. Ah, now open your eyes."
I felt my eyelids slide open. Any second now, yes, I'd see something, I'd see the doctor's face, my uppity bedmate, and Parker would announce me clear and fit to return home. Any second now, I just needed adjusting, that was it, just some adjusting . . . I'd see a drab hospital room, a small door, and some white sheets and walls . . .
I saw darkness with white specks.
The icy feeling in my stomach intensified, swallowed me.
Parker sighed. "You can't see, can you, boy?"
I didn't answer.
"Answer me, I don't have all day."
"N-no."
It came out a petrified whisper.
"Well, let me see now," Parker carried on, and his fingers touched my skin. They were death's hands, these, and they touched me, leaving me intensely cold. I felt him prodding my eyelids, the flesh around my eyes, and sliding my eyelids open. I recoiled as a stab of pain shot through me. "That hurt, did it?" He touched the eye itself and I flinched. "Sorry about that, boy . . . this hurt?"
Slaps of heat attacked the skin surrounding my eyes and I concurred with Parker's words.
"Hmm . . . yes, classic signs, this is . . ."
"What are?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Don't interrupt me, boy, I'm looking," he said and I was silenced. "Hmm . . . not scratched, penetrated . . . interesting . . . boy, did West say what kind of acid it was that was in your eyes?"
I tried to think back, but the brief explanation that West had given me after his gut-wrenching blow gave no answers. "He didn't say, just said it was an unknown type of acid. The police are supposed to come in and ask me questions later, after."
"Didn't ask you about your personal life, boy, but that was interesting . . . you were walking, you say?"
I swallowed, still lost in the darkness in front of me. "Yes, just taking a nice short walk."
He made an appreciative noise, and finally his fingers stopped probing. "Lie back," he told me, and I heard the metallic scraping of a chair. "Be very still. I'm going to use a metallic instrument, and it may be uncomfortable, but I understand in your line of work you're used to pain."
I would have said yes, but he pushed me back against the pillows and his hands again went to my eyes. I felt a cold thing pressed into my eyelids, into my eyes, and there were indeed sharp twinges of pain, but I fought them off. Again, he finally stopped, and I heard him shift as he sat on the chair.
"You may sit up," he said, and his voice was troubled. My stomach took a slow swoop.
"Well?" I croaked, suddenly trembling.
"Well, boy, I'm not going to lie to you," Parker said, his voice sounding flat and tired. "You're in a bad way, the worst there possibly can be. That acid was horrible to you. You're completely blind in your right eye. There is nothing I can do, nor any other optometrist for that matter, that can restore vision in that eye. Your left eye is better, though not by much. You have some vision left, only enough to make out black fuzzy shapes, I'm sure. With some minor surgery, you can be helped, but even after that, you'll need a strong pair of glasses or a strong contact." He paused delicately. "I'm sorry, Chris, but you'll never see the same again." He sounded like he meant it.
There was the same hollowness inside. I felt shock worm its way through my body.
"You can't do anything?" I asked in a voice that sounded nothing like my own.
"We can do the surgery to repair your left eye tomorrow," he said. "But other than that, there is nothing."
"Thank you," I said, in the same emotionless tone.
"You'll need therapy," he said. "You'll need to learn how to live with partial vision. Dr. West will arrange that, I'm sure. Tomorrow the surgery will be done, if you wish, and soon after, the therapy can begin. You should be cleared to leave the hospital in two weeks at the most, if your therapy goes well." He hesitated. "Remember that I said you still have some vision in your left eye. In a few moments, that should return. You'll see black fuzzy shapes. I don't want you out of bed unsupervised."
"I won't," I promised dully.
He hesitated, and then I felt him pat my arm. "Don't worry, boy, you'll have some vision, and that's more than most in your case, so don't be moping. You'll be back on your feet soon. Would you like the bandages off?"
"Yes," I said, then I wondered. It ached to think. "What do my eyes look like?"
"Oh, they're not sealed shut or anything," Parker chuckled. "They look milky, like there's some sort of covering over the blue irises. The left eye is better than the right, of course, not so milky. It'll attract attention, I gander, but not so much people stare at you in the streets, though I'm sure you already get that, don't you, boy?"
I barely registered his words. "Yeah, sure."
He sighed. "I'll get West to prescribe you some pills or something," he said, and I heard him stepping away. "I'll arrange the surgery tomorrow, and I'll be dropping by later today, no doubt."
"Thank you," I said after him, but he had already gone.
I slumped back against the pillows, lost in the darkness in front of me.
"Blind, huh?" I heard Mr. Johnson say across the room.
"Yes," I answered hollowly.
"That's why you didn't answer the phone?" he quizzed.
I slipped down and turned away from him, hoping he'd take the hint. I felt my eyelids slip shut, but it didn't matter, since I could see nothing as it was. "Yes."
He didn't ask anymore question, and I was glad.
The darkness in front of me was total, complete.
Despair wasn't even as dark.
__
"Mom, you don't have to fly down here," I insisted into the phone. It felt so familiar in my hand; I didn't even have to see it to know I was holding it right. "No, Mom, please, just stay home. It's not like I'm dying or anything. Please just stay home."
"Chris, we're coming down there," my mother insisted. "You're our only son and we want to make sure you're okay."
I made an exaggerated noise to Bernard, who made a small laugh to acknowledge me. He had insisted with his questions after I had come out of my depression, and despite myself, I had found myself getting along with him. He was much older than me, probably by twenty years at the least, but I found him surprisingly able to get on with. He was the only real person I knew in the place, anyway, and the only one I could talk to. He wasn't Mr. Asshole, to say the least.
"I am fine," I answered.
"You're going into surgery tomorrow, please! You need our moral support!"
"I do not need moral support! I'll be drugged before the surgery, high after it!" I practically shouted into the receiver.
"Well, we can talk to you before and after, it's no buts, you can't stop us!"
"You're really hurting my mental psyche," I growled.
"I don't care about your mental psyche, mister, you are still my son and I still care about you." Her voice was etched with worry. "Tell me what the doctor said, Chris. Wait, I'll put you on speaker phone." There was a click and then a small burst of static.
"Chris, are you okay?" my father burst out.
I rolled my eyes without realizing it. "Yes, Dad, I'm perfectly normal."
"Your mother said something about your eyes."
"Yes, but he wouldn't tell me what!" my mother said angrily. "All he said was that he was okay and that he had hurt his eyes."
I felt the sagging of the burden on my chest, weighting me down. "Yeah, it's got something to do with my eyes."
"Well, how bad?" my father said impatiently. "You can still see, can't you?"
I was silent. Pain welled up to me and I wanted to claw the darkness away from my face, claw the veil that surrounded me down and tear it to shreds.
"Chris?" my mother asked again, shaking slightly.
"You can still see, can't you?" my father repeated, sounding slightly horrified.
"No," I said, the words wrenching themselves from me with bursts of pain.
There was a silence on the other end, and then my father stammered, "What?"
"There was an accident," I said swiftly, running my words together, knowing that if I did it fast enough, I wouldn't have to dwell on them, wouldn't have to acknowledge the horrible fact that they were true. "There was an explosion and there was acid. It . . . got into my eyes." Sorrow was choking me. Not even I could speak fast enough to outthink the pain inside me and I had made my living on speaking fast. "I can't see out of my right eye, and I can only see fuzzy shapes out of the left." My voice, again, was that strangely calm, even though my insides were ripping apart. "I'm having surgery tomorrow to repair what's left of the left eye, but even after that I won't be able to see as well as I used to. I'll have to wear glasses or contacts. I'll be partially blind the rest of my life."
I felt the choking dread inside me again, tearing at my insides, yanking around the yolk that made up my inside.
There was silence.
"Yeah, well, I've got to go," I said shortly.
"Chris, wait, let us talk-"
"If you want to come, fine," I cut off smoothly. "You know where it is, but I've already told you I'm fine. I'll see you later."
Ignoring the bursts of sounds from the phone, I replaced the receiver on my lap and opened my left eye as wide as I could. A fuzzy black shape presented itself. It looked exactly as everything else did. I touched the phone and I couldn't even see my hand. All I saw was another dark shape against the lighter shade of the phone.
"This is useless," I growled, throwing my head around and finding a shape that could have been the bedside table, or Bernard's bed. It was useless to try and see this way. It was better to keep my eyes shut. "This is totally useless." I grabbed the phone and placed it on the side on my side, angrily yanking the cord down. "Is West here?" I asked Bernard.
"No," he answered in his weathered voice from the right. "He left awhile ago, kid. So are your parents coming down?"
"I think they are," I said, closing my eyes into the familiar darkness and slumping back against the pillows. From the right, I could hear the chatter of Bernard's TV. "I told them not to, but they are."
"Kid, you're crazy. I'd give anything to have my family down here."
"Yeah, well, I don't," I said rudely, trying to tune out the sounds coming from Bernard's TV. It was useless trying to listen when I couldn't see anything.
"Punk," Bernard said, and despite myself, I laughed. "Punk wrestling kid."
I froze.
"What's wrong?" Bernard said, alarmed, apparently seeing my rapidness. "Did that damn doctor give you the wrong pill?"
I didn't answer him, but fumbled on my side for the phone. I felt its shape and carefully picked it up, feeling the buttons.
"Who are you calling?" Bernard asked loudly. "Hello, I'm talking to you, kid."
"I know, but this is an important call." I felt the buttons. "Oh damn," I growled as I accidentally pressed one and pushed the receiver back on the hook. I was staring straight ahead and I wondered if I opened my left eye, if I could see. No, probably not, I had already tried that experiment. I lifted the phone again, holding it low on my lap, my head high. Carefully I felt the buttons. Breathing shallowly, I dialed the numbers.
"Hello, this is Pizza Hut, how may I-"
"Damn!" I slammed the phone back on the receiver.
"Wrong number?" Bernard guessed innocently.
"I can't see the fucking numbers," I almost yelled at him, again feeling the buttons, this time dialing more carefully.
"Hello, this is live adult line," said a seductive female voice. "Would you like to talk to a live male or female? Either one will surely make your day, let us help you to find the lust inside-"
"Damn it!" I almost screamed, slamming the phone back down again.
"Hey," Bernard said, with a trace of concern in his voice. "Don't break the phone, Chris; you'll have to buy it. You know how damn cheap these hospitals are."
Barely hearing him, I again dialed.
"Welcome, you've reached the CIA tip hotline, if you would like to leave a tip involving an unsolved case or terrorist threat, press-"
Yelling incoherently, I slammed the phone down again. I wanted to break it, I wanted to break everything! I slumped back against the pillows, growling deep in my throat, refusing to let any tears into my eyes. I could still cry, couldn't I? I still had tear ducts, didn't I?
"Well, hello," said West, apparently having just entered the room. He was talking jubilantly. "How are you both?"
"Not that you care," Bernard snorted, "but Chris is trying to make a phone call."
I didn't answer, and turned away from his voice, hopefully having my eyes in the other direction. I still saw the blurred shapes, nothing but a pattern of black and white shapes.
"Is that true, Chris?" West asked as he tapped closer.
Oh, just tell him, he can dial the number for you anyway. "Yes," I answered with as much spite in my voice I could muster. I turned my head back toward his voice. I felt the pressure of the phone leave my lap and I flinched. He had come up on me so quietly, even though his feet were noisy.
"Tell me the number," he said.
I recited the number to him. He handed me back the receiver, pushing the phone into my hand until he was sure I was grasping it firmly. I heard no footsteps, and asked, "Are you gone?"
He didn't answer, but Bernard said, "Nope, he's standing right next to your bed."
"Will you please leave?" I asked, trying to be polite.
"Of course," he said, almost automatically, and I heard him clomping away. There was a slight rustle of the door and Bernard complied with my decision, saying, "He's gone. Damn bastard is a sicko."
I started to agree, and then a soft female voice asked, "Hello?"
"Hi, Karen," I said, forcing my voice to be cheerful. "It's Chris."
"Oh, hi Chris, how are you? Do you want to speak to Kurt?"
"Yes, that would be good," I told her and there was a small silence.
"Why are you stalking me, you sick freak?" Kurt Angle asked as soon as he got on the line.
"I'm not stalking you," I said patiently. "I'm actually amazed I got away from you, you sick freak."
"You know, when you start stealing my words, you know I've got to get angry," Kurt said, and I laughed. Kurt was my best friend inside the WWE and if anyone could cheer me up, the Olympic Hero could. "So why are you calling from a hospital?"
"How'd you know?" I asked, surprised.
"You know, Chris, this is the modern day and age of caller ID," Kurt said in an aggravated voice.
"Shut your trap, Olympic Zero," I told him, "you suck."
"When you start sounding like the fans, then I have to worry," he said, and I laughed again. "So why the hospital bit? You didn't get hurt last night, did you?"
"Well, not at the show," I said nervously, suddenly feeling very foolish for calling him. Why did I have to call him? So I could bitch at him? I had a reason. I had to tell him . . . what? That I was blind now? That I was blind and that . . . I would have to quit?
NO!
I couldn't quit! This was my life! Wrestling was my life, it was my passion, it was the only thing that kept me alive!
This wouldn't hamper me; Parker had said I'd regain my ability to see. I would be able to see. I had to tell Vince, but he . . .
Did I have to tell Vince?
"Chris, if you're trying to prank call me, I suggest you do it another time," Kurt said, and I detected a hint of sleepiness and anger. "My daughter is asleep and she practically woke up when you called. So are you hurt or what?"
"Yeah," I said, still thinking.
"Badly?" he asked, and now there was a hint of concern. "Are you alright?"
Did I have to tell Vince, did I need to tell him?
"Chris!"
"Yeah, sort of," I answered, plunging ahead before I could stop myself. I gave the same brief account of what had transpired as I had to my parents. I said it breathlessly, and when he I finished, there was silence. "Kurt?"
"My God, Chris, you're blind?"
I laughed, a laugh that came out so roughly it sounded more like a dog coughing. "Well, to put it so eloquently, Kurt, I guess you could say yes, I am."
"But . . ."
"But what?"
"You're okay?"
"Well, I'm alive, so yeah, I guess I am."
"That's good." He sounded hurt. "Listen, I think I'll fly down there and help you out, you know? You shouldn't be alone now."
"Oh, that's very touching, really." It came out rudely. "But I'm fine."
"Then why did you call me?" He didn't sound angry; instead, he was merely requesting why I had called.
"Because . . . because . . ." I trailed. Why had I called?
"I thought so," he said in that calm voice of his I knew masked whatever feeling he was hiding. "You don't have anyone to lean on, besides your parents, and you need some friends now. Don't worry, Chris, you'll get through this."
"Kurt . . ."
"No buts, I'm coming down there. I'll call Vince-"
"NO!"
Bernard gave a yelp as he heard my forced cry and I was surprised that West didn't come bursting through the door, yelling, "Tarry ho!"
"What?" Kurt asked, as if he had not just gone deaf from my shouting.
"If you didn't hear me, Kurt, I said no," I said quietly.
"Why not?" he asked, sounding quizzical.
"I just don't want you to, Kurt, please," I pleaded.
"But you've got to tell him, Chris, this is serious."
"I know it's serious, but I just don't want to tell him. I'm afraid of what he's going to say."
"What is he going to say that you're so scared of?"
I felt my hand grasp something that I assumed was the blanket covering my legs. I seized it immediately, finding what I assumed what a loose string, tying it around my finger.
"Chris, answer my question."
"What do you think he'll say, Kurt? Here I was last night, fine and dandy, and now here I am, partially impaired for the rest of my life." The words spilled out from me as water does from a fountain, and I didn't know how to stop it. "You know what he did to Shawn."
"Chris, he didn't make Shawn leave," Kurt said, quietly.
"Shawn left because Vince pressured him!" The words were shouting now. "And that was just his back! What do you think he'll say to me? Let me go with a nice pension?"
"Chris, you know Vince wouldn't do that." Kurt's voice was infuriatingly calm. "You said it yourself; you'd get some of your sight back."
"So what, he'd let me stay on the sidelines?"
"Chris, you're not being rational-"
"I'm telling you, Kurt, like I've told everybody; I cannot stay on the sidelines! Fuck, if he took me out, I'd die."
"Chris, you are not being rational, you're thinking crazy-"
"I am thinking perfectly rationally," I said through gritted teeth.
"No, you're not. You've suffered the worst shock a person can have. It's normal not to think rationally."
"I. Am. Thinking. Rationally," I growled.
"Chris, look, I won't call him, alright? But I am coming down there, and you and I are going to have this discussion in private."
"You are not," I snarled.
"Oh yeah," Kurt said, "what are you going to do about it? Strangle me with the phone cord?"
"You are not funny. You are not coming down here. I didn't call you so you could come down here-"
"Then what did you call me for?" he demanded.
I didn't say anything.
"Point in case," he said quietly. "Well, I'll be there . . . when are you having surgery?"
"Two in the afternoon," I said, "but you are not coming!"
"Well, okay, two," he continued as if I had not spoken. "Hmm, we've got Smackdown tomorrow, the last taping of ours, so . . . I'll be there the day after tomorrow. I just better hear you butt saying how thankful you are for me forking up two hundred bucks for airfare."
"Kurt, listen to my words, feel them. YOU ARE NOT COMING."
"Right," he said brightly. "Be strong, Chris. You'll get through just fine. Well, talk to you soon, Chris. Be strong."
"KURT!" I roared furiously, but it was too late. I heard only a stale dial tone.
I felt the guardrail of my bed and pitched the phone in its cradle over the side. I heard the satisfying crash as it collided with the floor.
Bernardo barked sarcastically, "Oh, that's just great, kid. It's smashed. What the hell got you all riled up?"
"Nothing," I snarled at him, and tried to sink as far down as I could into the bed, closing my useless eyes. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted to questions to end, the horrifying feeling I felt whenever I breathed.
If I had been a spectator, I probably would have said that person in my predicament was overacting. Life went on, you got over it, and eventually you grew used to the fact that you'd never see again. In fact, I'd say that the surgery would restore your eyesight and ask what the person was worrying about, they would see again. There was never any reason to lose hope and embrace despair. As an afterthought, I'd kick the person for ever feeling such helplessness and tell them that they were overacting.
I might as well be kicking myself.