Hey, guys, here's my new chapter. Sorry it took so long, but I lost it,
and then I had to rectify it. I hope you enjoy it.
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Trapped in the Sky
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Chapter Three
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"West is outside talking to somebody."
"Why is this relevant?"
The gray fuzz on the right side of my eye was irritating me tremendously. I wanted to scream and claw it away, but I could do nothing of the like. As Parker had promised, some sight had come back to my left eye, but it was far from great. In fact, it was as far away from seeing anything and still see as you could get. Everything was represented by shades of gray and black, and shapes were almost impossible for me to distguinguish. Sometimes I was startled and I'd see a pitch of blue or violet, but it would scatter in a hurry. All that represented pictures were black, fuzzy, shapeless forms, against the lighter or darker surface on which it was positioned. It was as if some deranged child had taken a huge marker of black and colored it all over the world and smashed whatever shapes had been to pieces.
I had never imagined being blind would be like this, but it was. I wanted to scream and tear and cry, but what good would it do? It wasn't as if my vision would ever be the same. It wasn't as if my life would ever be the same. It wasn't as if anything would ever be the same. I might as well get used to it. I might as well accept the unchangeable.
Damn you, Chris, you're a coward.
"I just thought I'd let you know," Bernard said, sounding slightly hurt. "You know, since you can't see and everything . . ."
"Don't remind me," I muttered. "So what's happening, then?"
"Nothing," Bernard said grumpily. "I can't hear them well enough to see them. Chris, what in the hell are you doing?"
"I'm trying to see," I replied, pushing back the tide of sorrow. My fingers flicking back and forth in front of my left eye; I had shut my right completely and was vainly trying to see the movement. All I saw was the lesser gray against a darker black. Parker had greatly exaggerated when he had said I would regain some vision in my eye. Vestiges of anger rose inside me at the thought. False hope was not what I needed. Had he thought it would be easier when I could actually see?
"Can you hear them? Might as well hear what the fuckers are saying."
"You've got a bad mouth, Bernard," I said mildly. "Which way?"
"Hey, it takes one to know one. Lean to you right."
I leaned to my right obligingly. I tried to shut out the dots and fuzz in my eyes, to only hear, but there was nothing.
"Nothing," I said. "What do they look like?" Was that a movement? I tried to move my fingers in a snappy motion. There was slight breaking pattern . . . but no, I was imagining it. I had to be . . .
"It's two people, a gal and guy," Bernard reported. "They're looking okay. She's got a few grays and some wrinkles- I'd remove those, her clothes are all out of date-"
"They say only gay men know clothes," I said, not really believing it, but knowing it would piss him off. The lines swayed in my vision.
"Yes, well, touch me, I'm yours," he snapped moodily. "They've both got blonde hair- blondes are so overrated."
"I'm blonde," I reminded him. He wasn't blind, was he?
"Well, we know what's happened to you, not any different."
"I'm hurt."
"I'll get up and kick your ass, that's what I'll do. Your bleach seeped right into your skull."
"Oh, did you make that one up yourself or did your mommy help you?"
"Shut up, you punk ass," he said. "They're still arguing- the man's got on a jersey or something, kind of big-"
I froze. My fingers flopped to my side.
"Chris?" Bernard sounded alarmed. "Are you alright?"
"Hockey jersey?" I asked faintly. "Is it a hockey jersey?"
"How am I supposed to know?" he grumped. "I'm a Rams fan myself, shame they moved from-"
"Bernard, does he look like me?" I said urgently.
"What?"
"The man, does he look like me? Tell me!" I wanted to scream.
There was a slight pause. "Well, sort of, he's got short hair, not like your beautiful mope, you arrogant little- "Suddenly he fell silent and with a loud breath, he said, "Oh."
"I have to get out of here!" Frantically I began to feel along the side of my bed. No, my parents could not be here. I had ordered them away. No, they couldn't be. They couldn't be. I would die. I was going to die.
"Chris, you fuck, wait, it's not that bad!" Bernard was talking calmly with a dead urgency. "Are you crazy? Man, I'd give anything to have my family here and you're trying to run away. God, kids today are so ungrateful. You're a crazy bastard."
My hands clasped on something cool and metallic. It had to be the guardrail of my bed. I kicked off my blankets.
"Chris, you bastard, stop! Listen to me! Where the hell are you going to go? You're blind, you crazy son of a bitch, are you expecting to walk to Wal-Mart like that?"
Yes, Bernard, I was blind.
I was blind and my parents would pity me and they would say, "Oh, we love our son, yes, but he's blind now, decrepit, we have to take care of him. Yes, tedious, but we love our poor, crippled son." Yes, Bernard, they'd love me and fawn on me and tell me everything would be better. They'd try to kiss away the bruises that could be kissed away; they would try to stop the creation of man from working its dark wonders on my eyes; they'd call on Jesus and the sweet Holy Mary to pray for their son, oh yes, pray for him, and he shall be healed. He shall be healed and work his own magic upon the earth. Oh yes, Mr. Johnson, we love our son, and we're just trying to give him the best. Oh yes, my son's friend, Bernard, he was really sweet, but you know, I was just glad to get my darling son out of that hospital . . . yes, the accident was rather unfortunate, but what can you do? Yes, thank you for your prayers . . . your prayers never did shit for me, but who cares; I'm Chris, the blind one who will die in his own self-pity.
I wanted to scream.
"Chris, please- woah!"
Trusting ten years of leaping and flying, I vaulted over the railing on the bed. Blind panic captured me- for a moment, I froze completely and almost let go of my cool hold. Three seconds lasted an eternity. My legs scrabbled, kicked, and suddenly there was a jolt from underneath me. My knees bent, almost buckled. But I was standing.
I had to be standing on the floor. I moved my head vainly, at the moment preoccupied with the notion that I could actually see. I wavered on my feet, still grasping the cool steel of what had to be the guardrail of my bed. My legs were shaky after hours of nothing but lying, but it soon vanished. Now I just had to deal with the sense of vertigo and helplessness that came toward me.
"Get back in that bed!" Bernard was furious. "Get back in there, you damn fool, before I call the doctor and-"
"Which way is the bathroom?" I asked calmly. I had to remain calm. I had to get out before my parents could get in here and look at me with that pity and shame in their eyes, that pity and shame that I wouldn't even be able to see . . .
"The bathroom?" He treated me to a few moments of stark confusion, and then he yelled heatedly, "No, I will not help you! You are being a stupid brat and you need to get your ass back in that bed NOW!"
"Your blood pressure, Bernard, watch your blood pressure." I took a step forward, still holding onto the guardrail. Sudden pain shot up my thigh. I stumbled back, barely able to stay steady, and I heard something loud clang to the floor. I cursed softly and shook out my leg. That had to be my bedside table . . . the thing that had fallen had probably been the phone . . .
"Kid, listen to me, you are being stupid and idiotic. Listen to me, you're being some punk, some asshole, who can't even see what's- and YOU ARE NOT LISTENING!"
I didn't bother to respond to him and determinedly turned away from the table and took another tentative step forward. No pain snaked up on me. That's right, no pain, no gain. I went forward gingerly, still clutching the rail as if it were my lifesaver. That still didn't give me a clue to as where the bathroom was.
"Bernard," I said quickly. "Where's the bathroom?"
There was a shocked pause and he said, furiously, "You expect me to help you? Are you INSANE? Get your ass back in that bed before I call West NOW!"
Ignoring him and taking a quick breath, I let my hand drop from the rail and I plunged sideways in a fast movement.
That's right, leave it all to faith. Faith will lead you home.
Faith led me right into a blunt object at such a speed that it knocked the wind out of me.
Bernard yelped from close by as I staggered back, rubbing my stomach in an attempt to loosen the grip of pain. Panic and frustration welled in my head as the voices from outside the door grew louder and angrier. I could still not distuinguish the words, but the angry buzz was enough.
"Are you alright?" Bernard asked. I didn't answer and instead groped blindly. My hands suddenly connected with cold steel. This had to be Bernard's bed.
"Where's the bathroom?" I fairly yelled.
"Fine," he snapped, suddenly relenting, and sweet relief washed over me. "Fine, you want to be an ass? Damn you, Chris, you're an idiot. Hold the rail and go forward until you reach the end. Then it's a few more steps until you hit the wall."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I wanted to throw myself upon his feet and kiss his ring. He didn't sound happy, but he didn't need to be. All he had to do was direct me to my escape route. Grasping the rail in one hand, I sidled forward until my hand came loose and hit open air. I flew forward, remembering that the wall was a few more steps ahead.
I smacked it with such a force that I almost fell over. I muffled my curses as I regained my footing.
This is going splendidly, I thought deliriously.
"Nice job, kid. You should do this as a profession." Bernard snickered, but he sounded heavy. "Parker just came up. He's talking to West. It looks like they're going to open the door. Go to the left. Hurry, they're coming in."
Panic fluttered around my heart.
I scuttled left, holding onto the expansive thing I assumed was the wall. I heard the rustle of a lock and then a loud click.
Almost yelling, I felt the breaking of the wall and a gap. I threw myself in the room, my thighs smacking against something sharp, but I ignored the pain and grappled for the door. I felt a sharp edge, took it for the door, and closed it as quietly as I could in my haste. I was panting hard, my whole body aching. I wanted to stagger to the toilet I knew had to be present, but I felt exhausted. I sagged against the door, quieting my breathing, and listened.
"Well, hello, Mr. John- where's Chris?'
I smiled at the utter confusion in West's voice.
"What do you mean, 'where's Chris?'"
The smile fell off my face with the swiftness of an arrow. It was my mother's voice, slightly panicked, and tired. She sounded exhausted, almost. Almost as tired as I was.
"Nothing, I mean, nothing." It was almost gratifying to hear West stammering, but my mother's voice kept me silent.
"He's not here. Where is he, then?"
"You can't have misplaced him, could you?"
My father's voice was like gravel crunching. I winced. He was talking slowly, in a deep, calm voice that was always his when he was slowly becoming angry. It was something I liked about my father, yet I hated it as well: he never sounded angry. I remember when I was kid I used to tangle with the trampoline in the backyard, even after he had sternly ordered me off it; when he caught me, he spoke long sentences with words I didn't understand, in the calmest voice I had ever heard. I was unsure of whether he had been angry; after the sound beating with his belt I had understood better.
"I'm sure Dr. West hasn't lost his patient," Parker said in a slightly bemused tone. I shivered at the tone. He sounded frail and old, yet when he spoke, he was wiry and intelligent. He scared me, but I guessed it was because he was the bearer of news: he had handed down the judgment about my eyes, and he was performing the surgery later on. He might as well be the minions of Satan sent to carry down the sentence of hell.
"Mr. Johnson, have you seen Mr. Irvine?" West asked in a panicked tone.
"Yup," Bernard replied. "He got right up and walked out. He got straight up, flipped over the right side of the bed, found the door as sure as he could see, and headed out."
Thank you, Bernard, for your efforts you will be paid dearly.
"Wha . . . what?" My mother sounded stricken.
"He got up, said he had to leave, and left." Bernard said it with so much ease that I almost believed him. "Walked right up and left. It was most fucked- excuse my language, ma'am- funniest thing I'd ever seen."
My mother wailed, "He left? How could you let him leave?"
"I think we need an explanation," said my father, and a tone of anger crept into his voice. "You've kept us out of this room for almost ten minutes and now our son is gone? What kind of hospital is this?"
"Nonsense!" West cried. "He can't have left . . . he's blind, for God's sakes . . ."
My mother wailed.
"Quiet, honey . . . I demand an explanation. You, sir, did he say where he was going?" My father always had a knack of going straight for the meat of the matter.
"We'll have to find him at once, Arnold," Parker said, still in the slightly bemused tone, and it disturbed me. "Send out search parties to scour the hospital."
"Yup, he's been gone awhile," chortled Bernard, and there was another unhappy sound from my mother.
"You'll find my son at once, or you will be sued," my father said, in his deeply calm voice, still coloring with anger. "You will find my son or-"
"Of course!" West stammered. "Of course we'll find him. He can't have gone far, he can't have! Yes, at once, follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Irvine . . ."
"Come on, honey," my father said in a fierce voice that was still calm. "Let's go with the good doctor," he continued in an exaggerated tone, "and find our son."
That's right, Dad, hit him where it hurts.
"Oh," Parker said, still in that slightly bemused tone. "Why is Mr. Irvine's phone on the floor, Mr. Johnson? It is on the left side on the bed. I thought you said Mr. Irvine got out on the right side."
There was an awful, sickening pause. We had both forgotten about the phone I had knocked over in my haste to escape to the bathroom.
Fumbling, Bernard said, "Uh . . . well, you know, on the way out, he kicked it. Those phone's ain't steady, you know. One push and they come down."
"Of course," Parker said, this time icily as well as bemused. "Of course he did. He's a very bright young man who is just on the wrong direction."
I almost fainted. He was faking! He had to be! He knew I was in the bathroom!
"Let's go, shall we?" West said uncertainly.
"Of course," Parker said, still in icy tone. "We must find him, of course. Wrong directions can be easily corrected."
I think I did faint.
There were more sounds, the swinging of the door, and then a loud clang and click as it closed. I wanted to cry. Parker hadn't known. He'd only hinted. He hadn't known. I sighed. Still staring at the darkness I was trapped in, I sagged against the door, on the verge of collapse. I wanted to sleep, then and there, pass out and maybe wake up from the nightmare. I'd already tried it, but second time could be the charm. I'd just have to wait for the cue from Bernard to stagger back into the bed. They'd check the room again, of course, and then I'd have to face . . .
No. I'd run back into the bathroom again. I'd keep Bernard on watch twenty-four hours, and whenever they returned, I'd hide in the bathroom. I'd never have to face them.
I'd never . . .
What kind of idiot are you?
"They're gone, Chris," Bernard hollered from outside. Good. I could collapse on my bed now. As my hand touched on the knob, I stopped. Bernard sounded . . . cocky. He sounded happy. He sounded . . . like Parker had.
"Are you sure?" I asked uncertainly through the door.
There was a small laugh, "Of course there's nobody. Come out, you punk ass kid."
There was the Bernard I knew and hated. I twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and tapped hesitantly forward.
"Thanks for covering for me, Bernard. You had them fooled good."
"Not all of them," Parker said.
I froze. My senses tingled.
He was here!
"Bernard!" I shouted accusingly, panic rising in my voice. "Bernard, what the hell?"
"You're a nice guy, Chris," he said, sounding pleased. "You're smart too. You're just being a stupid kid."
I wanted to tear his throat out.
"You certainly set us in circles, boy," Parker continued. "West will have your head when he finds out you tricked him, but never fear. If we get you back into bed, nobody but me will be the wiser. Let's go, boy. You're acting like a fool."
There was a small tapping sound. His footfalls. A bony hand touched my arm and I jerked back, colliding with the wall.
"Don't touch me!" I yelled at him. "Don't touch me!"
"Don't be a fool," he snapped. "Let me help you." Again, his hand touched my arm, and this time, I skittered across the wall, anger smoldering inside me. Anger . . . and pain.
"Chris," Bernard said in exasperation. "Don't be an idiot, kid."
I didn't answer him. As Parker's fingertips grazed the flesh of my arm, I stepped forward quickly and collided with what I took for Bernard's bed. I yelled my pain, took the blow, and rammed along the rail until I came to the end and then hurled to the right so that I was alongside the bed.
"Chris!" Bernard yelped. "Parker, stop him!"
"He's being an idiot," Parker observed in a sulking voice. "But he needs help." This time, his hand closed on my elbow, and he held me.
Get out of it! Get out of it! Choke him!
I struggled against his hand. "Let go of me! Leave me alone! Let go of me! Don't touch me!"
Another hand came to bear upon my struggling form, and I screamed my rage and frustration at deaf ears. "Leave me alone! DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME! JUST DON"T TOUCH ME!" It was insane! A fifty plus man had to be holding me, and yet he was holding me as if I were a child. I should be able to break his hold . . . break his filthy fingers for doing nothing to help . . .
Nobody had helped me. Nobody was ever going to help me.
The fire inside me turned into nothing but an ember.
"It's alright, Chris, it's all right." Parker's voice was firm and strong. He handled me gently, holding both my arms in a firm, cool grip. "Everything's all right."
I wanted to sink. I wanted to drown. I wanted to see.
Just stop this pain . . . just stop this anger, just stop it all!
I realized tears were sliding down my cheeks, invading my lips, touching my tongue. I tasted the saltiness. I was crying in this man's arms. I was shaking, trembling, crying in a stranger's arms. But it felt . . . right.
"It's okay, Chris. It's okay."
He was shunting me forward, and I let him. I was limp. The tears continued to stream down my face, a steady river that had no end. There was nothing but this pain. There was nothing but this hurt.
I heard a metallic scraping sound. "Get in," Parker ordered, and pushed me forward. I felt the softness of the bed, and obliged, crawling in methodically. I scrubbed at my face, at the tears, forcing my voice to revert from whimpering to harsh breathing. Feeling around, I pushed the blanket down and maneuvered my legs under it. I pulled the blanket up to my midsection, pushed my arms underneath it, and turned away from Parker.
Just leave me alone. Let me die in my own self-pity.
"Are you alright, Chris?" Parker asked, hesitantly.
"Do you think I'm alright?" I asked harshly, all the tenses of crying gone from my voice.
I wanted to heap it all on them. Heap it all on them and then I wouldn't have to deal with it. I wouldn't have to see it . . .
"Chris, I think you're in a lot of pain," Parker said carefully. "I think you're in a lot of pain. I think you need a psychiatrist."
I laughed a scream. "You have the money so he can see me, wacko doctor? You have the fucking money so he can come here and listen to me scream? You have the money so he can come here and hear me say, 'I'm so fucking poor now, you see, because I can't see, and now I'm blind?' If you have that money, let him come. I can say everybody's gonna look at me now? My future is over? My career is over? My whole fucking life is over? What the hell do you think, Dr. Wacko? My career's over. My life's over. You do just fine listening, Dr. Wacko. I don't need some damn idiot to come and listen."
There was a silence, only Bernard's shallow breathing and Parker's heavy breathing.
"Chris, listen, you're not-" Parker started.
"I am!" I screamed. "I know my life is over! Isn't that enough? Aren't I accepting the obvious? Aren't I accepting what I can't change? Huh? Aren't I? I know my life's over, okay? Okay? Isn't that enough for you? Just leave me the fuck of alone."
Now he would leave. He'd let me die in the pity . . .
"You know what, Chris?" Parker spoke angrily. "You know what? You're so busy being with pity in yourself, you're thinking that nobody can know what you're going through. You know what, you ass? You want people to pity you. You want them to look at you and think you're so hurt. You hate it, but you want it. Boy, you have family who loves you and you're here, pushing them away. You think you're so damn special, and you ain't. You know what, boy? You make me sick. I'm trying to help you and you're acting like an ass. I don't pity you, you damn kid, I don't pity you, and nobody else does either, you fucker. And I am going to do your surgery whether you like it or not, and I am going to get your parents. Get a life, you damn idiot."
There was an angry stomping sound, there was the creak of the door, and then he was gone.
I wanted to ignore what he had said. I pushed my head into my pillow, tried to block out the words. Tried to block out what was happening. I wanted to die, I wanted to scream, I wanted to punch whatever life I had ever known back into the world.
I wanted to stop thinking. I wanted to stop knowing that Parker was right.
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Trapped in the Sky
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Chapter Three
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"West is outside talking to somebody."
"Why is this relevant?"
The gray fuzz on the right side of my eye was irritating me tremendously. I wanted to scream and claw it away, but I could do nothing of the like. As Parker had promised, some sight had come back to my left eye, but it was far from great. In fact, it was as far away from seeing anything and still see as you could get. Everything was represented by shades of gray and black, and shapes were almost impossible for me to distguinguish. Sometimes I was startled and I'd see a pitch of blue or violet, but it would scatter in a hurry. All that represented pictures were black, fuzzy, shapeless forms, against the lighter or darker surface on which it was positioned. It was as if some deranged child had taken a huge marker of black and colored it all over the world and smashed whatever shapes had been to pieces.
I had never imagined being blind would be like this, but it was. I wanted to scream and tear and cry, but what good would it do? It wasn't as if my vision would ever be the same. It wasn't as if my life would ever be the same. It wasn't as if anything would ever be the same. I might as well get used to it. I might as well accept the unchangeable.
Damn you, Chris, you're a coward.
"I just thought I'd let you know," Bernard said, sounding slightly hurt. "You know, since you can't see and everything . . ."
"Don't remind me," I muttered. "So what's happening, then?"
"Nothing," Bernard said grumpily. "I can't hear them well enough to see them. Chris, what in the hell are you doing?"
"I'm trying to see," I replied, pushing back the tide of sorrow. My fingers flicking back and forth in front of my left eye; I had shut my right completely and was vainly trying to see the movement. All I saw was the lesser gray against a darker black. Parker had greatly exaggerated when he had said I would regain some vision in my eye. Vestiges of anger rose inside me at the thought. False hope was not what I needed. Had he thought it would be easier when I could actually see?
"Can you hear them? Might as well hear what the fuckers are saying."
"You've got a bad mouth, Bernard," I said mildly. "Which way?"
"Hey, it takes one to know one. Lean to you right."
I leaned to my right obligingly. I tried to shut out the dots and fuzz in my eyes, to only hear, but there was nothing.
"Nothing," I said. "What do they look like?" Was that a movement? I tried to move my fingers in a snappy motion. There was slight breaking pattern . . . but no, I was imagining it. I had to be . . .
"It's two people, a gal and guy," Bernard reported. "They're looking okay. She's got a few grays and some wrinkles- I'd remove those, her clothes are all out of date-"
"They say only gay men know clothes," I said, not really believing it, but knowing it would piss him off. The lines swayed in my vision.
"Yes, well, touch me, I'm yours," he snapped moodily. "They've both got blonde hair- blondes are so overrated."
"I'm blonde," I reminded him. He wasn't blind, was he?
"Well, we know what's happened to you, not any different."
"I'm hurt."
"I'll get up and kick your ass, that's what I'll do. Your bleach seeped right into your skull."
"Oh, did you make that one up yourself or did your mommy help you?"
"Shut up, you punk ass," he said. "They're still arguing- the man's got on a jersey or something, kind of big-"
I froze. My fingers flopped to my side.
"Chris?" Bernard sounded alarmed. "Are you alright?"
"Hockey jersey?" I asked faintly. "Is it a hockey jersey?"
"How am I supposed to know?" he grumped. "I'm a Rams fan myself, shame they moved from-"
"Bernard, does he look like me?" I said urgently.
"What?"
"The man, does he look like me? Tell me!" I wanted to scream.
There was a slight pause. "Well, sort of, he's got short hair, not like your beautiful mope, you arrogant little- "Suddenly he fell silent and with a loud breath, he said, "Oh."
"I have to get out of here!" Frantically I began to feel along the side of my bed. No, my parents could not be here. I had ordered them away. No, they couldn't be. They couldn't be. I would die. I was going to die.
"Chris, you fuck, wait, it's not that bad!" Bernard was talking calmly with a dead urgency. "Are you crazy? Man, I'd give anything to have my family here and you're trying to run away. God, kids today are so ungrateful. You're a crazy bastard."
My hands clasped on something cool and metallic. It had to be the guardrail of my bed. I kicked off my blankets.
"Chris, you bastard, stop! Listen to me! Where the hell are you going to go? You're blind, you crazy son of a bitch, are you expecting to walk to Wal-Mart like that?"
Yes, Bernard, I was blind.
I was blind and my parents would pity me and they would say, "Oh, we love our son, yes, but he's blind now, decrepit, we have to take care of him. Yes, tedious, but we love our poor, crippled son." Yes, Bernard, they'd love me and fawn on me and tell me everything would be better. They'd try to kiss away the bruises that could be kissed away; they would try to stop the creation of man from working its dark wonders on my eyes; they'd call on Jesus and the sweet Holy Mary to pray for their son, oh yes, pray for him, and he shall be healed. He shall be healed and work his own magic upon the earth. Oh yes, Mr. Johnson, we love our son, and we're just trying to give him the best. Oh yes, my son's friend, Bernard, he was really sweet, but you know, I was just glad to get my darling son out of that hospital . . . yes, the accident was rather unfortunate, but what can you do? Yes, thank you for your prayers . . . your prayers never did shit for me, but who cares; I'm Chris, the blind one who will die in his own self-pity.
I wanted to scream.
"Chris, please- woah!"
Trusting ten years of leaping and flying, I vaulted over the railing on the bed. Blind panic captured me- for a moment, I froze completely and almost let go of my cool hold. Three seconds lasted an eternity. My legs scrabbled, kicked, and suddenly there was a jolt from underneath me. My knees bent, almost buckled. But I was standing.
I had to be standing on the floor. I moved my head vainly, at the moment preoccupied with the notion that I could actually see. I wavered on my feet, still grasping the cool steel of what had to be the guardrail of my bed. My legs were shaky after hours of nothing but lying, but it soon vanished. Now I just had to deal with the sense of vertigo and helplessness that came toward me.
"Get back in that bed!" Bernard was furious. "Get back in there, you damn fool, before I call the doctor and-"
"Which way is the bathroom?" I asked calmly. I had to remain calm. I had to get out before my parents could get in here and look at me with that pity and shame in their eyes, that pity and shame that I wouldn't even be able to see . . .
"The bathroom?" He treated me to a few moments of stark confusion, and then he yelled heatedly, "No, I will not help you! You are being a stupid brat and you need to get your ass back in that bed NOW!"
"Your blood pressure, Bernard, watch your blood pressure." I took a step forward, still holding onto the guardrail. Sudden pain shot up my thigh. I stumbled back, barely able to stay steady, and I heard something loud clang to the floor. I cursed softly and shook out my leg. That had to be my bedside table . . . the thing that had fallen had probably been the phone . . .
"Kid, listen to me, you are being stupid and idiotic. Listen to me, you're being some punk, some asshole, who can't even see what's- and YOU ARE NOT LISTENING!"
I didn't bother to respond to him and determinedly turned away from the table and took another tentative step forward. No pain snaked up on me. That's right, no pain, no gain. I went forward gingerly, still clutching the rail as if it were my lifesaver. That still didn't give me a clue to as where the bathroom was.
"Bernard," I said quickly. "Where's the bathroom?"
There was a shocked pause and he said, furiously, "You expect me to help you? Are you INSANE? Get your ass back in that bed before I call West NOW!"
Ignoring him and taking a quick breath, I let my hand drop from the rail and I plunged sideways in a fast movement.
That's right, leave it all to faith. Faith will lead you home.
Faith led me right into a blunt object at such a speed that it knocked the wind out of me.
Bernard yelped from close by as I staggered back, rubbing my stomach in an attempt to loosen the grip of pain. Panic and frustration welled in my head as the voices from outside the door grew louder and angrier. I could still not distuinguish the words, but the angry buzz was enough.
"Are you alright?" Bernard asked. I didn't answer and instead groped blindly. My hands suddenly connected with cold steel. This had to be Bernard's bed.
"Where's the bathroom?" I fairly yelled.
"Fine," he snapped, suddenly relenting, and sweet relief washed over me. "Fine, you want to be an ass? Damn you, Chris, you're an idiot. Hold the rail and go forward until you reach the end. Then it's a few more steps until you hit the wall."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I wanted to throw myself upon his feet and kiss his ring. He didn't sound happy, but he didn't need to be. All he had to do was direct me to my escape route. Grasping the rail in one hand, I sidled forward until my hand came loose and hit open air. I flew forward, remembering that the wall was a few more steps ahead.
I smacked it with such a force that I almost fell over. I muffled my curses as I regained my footing.
This is going splendidly, I thought deliriously.
"Nice job, kid. You should do this as a profession." Bernard snickered, but he sounded heavy. "Parker just came up. He's talking to West. It looks like they're going to open the door. Go to the left. Hurry, they're coming in."
Panic fluttered around my heart.
I scuttled left, holding onto the expansive thing I assumed was the wall. I heard the rustle of a lock and then a loud click.
Almost yelling, I felt the breaking of the wall and a gap. I threw myself in the room, my thighs smacking against something sharp, but I ignored the pain and grappled for the door. I felt a sharp edge, took it for the door, and closed it as quietly as I could in my haste. I was panting hard, my whole body aching. I wanted to stagger to the toilet I knew had to be present, but I felt exhausted. I sagged against the door, quieting my breathing, and listened.
"Well, hello, Mr. John- where's Chris?'
I smiled at the utter confusion in West's voice.
"What do you mean, 'where's Chris?'"
The smile fell off my face with the swiftness of an arrow. It was my mother's voice, slightly panicked, and tired. She sounded exhausted, almost. Almost as tired as I was.
"Nothing, I mean, nothing." It was almost gratifying to hear West stammering, but my mother's voice kept me silent.
"He's not here. Where is he, then?"
"You can't have misplaced him, could you?"
My father's voice was like gravel crunching. I winced. He was talking slowly, in a deep, calm voice that was always his when he was slowly becoming angry. It was something I liked about my father, yet I hated it as well: he never sounded angry. I remember when I was kid I used to tangle with the trampoline in the backyard, even after he had sternly ordered me off it; when he caught me, he spoke long sentences with words I didn't understand, in the calmest voice I had ever heard. I was unsure of whether he had been angry; after the sound beating with his belt I had understood better.
"I'm sure Dr. West hasn't lost his patient," Parker said in a slightly bemused tone. I shivered at the tone. He sounded frail and old, yet when he spoke, he was wiry and intelligent. He scared me, but I guessed it was because he was the bearer of news: he had handed down the judgment about my eyes, and he was performing the surgery later on. He might as well be the minions of Satan sent to carry down the sentence of hell.
"Mr. Johnson, have you seen Mr. Irvine?" West asked in a panicked tone.
"Yup," Bernard replied. "He got right up and walked out. He got straight up, flipped over the right side of the bed, found the door as sure as he could see, and headed out."
Thank you, Bernard, for your efforts you will be paid dearly.
"Wha . . . what?" My mother sounded stricken.
"He got up, said he had to leave, and left." Bernard said it with so much ease that I almost believed him. "Walked right up and left. It was most fucked- excuse my language, ma'am- funniest thing I'd ever seen."
My mother wailed, "He left? How could you let him leave?"
"I think we need an explanation," said my father, and a tone of anger crept into his voice. "You've kept us out of this room for almost ten minutes and now our son is gone? What kind of hospital is this?"
"Nonsense!" West cried. "He can't have left . . . he's blind, for God's sakes . . ."
My mother wailed.
"Quiet, honey . . . I demand an explanation. You, sir, did he say where he was going?" My father always had a knack of going straight for the meat of the matter.
"We'll have to find him at once, Arnold," Parker said, still in the slightly bemused tone, and it disturbed me. "Send out search parties to scour the hospital."
"Yup, he's been gone awhile," chortled Bernard, and there was another unhappy sound from my mother.
"You'll find my son at once, or you will be sued," my father said, in his deeply calm voice, still coloring with anger. "You will find my son or-"
"Of course!" West stammered. "Of course we'll find him. He can't have gone far, he can't have! Yes, at once, follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Irvine . . ."
"Come on, honey," my father said in a fierce voice that was still calm. "Let's go with the good doctor," he continued in an exaggerated tone, "and find our son."
That's right, Dad, hit him where it hurts.
"Oh," Parker said, still in that slightly bemused tone. "Why is Mr. Irvine's phone on the floor, Mr. Johnson? It is on the left side on the bed. I thought you said Mr. Irvine got out on the right side."
There was an awful, sickening pause. We had both forgotten about the phone I had knocked over in my haste to escape to the bathroom.
Fumbling, Bernard said, "Uh . . . well, you know, on the way out, he kicked it. Those phone's ain't steady, you know. One push and they come down."
"Of course," Parker said, this time icily as well as bemused. "Of course he did. He's a very bright young man who is just on the wrong direction."
I almost fainted. He was faking! He had to be! He knew I was in the bathroom!
"Let's go, shall we?" West said uncertainly.
"Of course," Parker said, still in icy tone. "We must find him, of course. Wrong directions can be easily corrected."
I think I did faint.
There were more sounds, the swinging of the door, and then a loud clang and click as it closed. I wanted to cry. Parker hadn't known. He'd only hinted. He hadn't known. I sighed. Still staring at the darkness I was trapped in, I sagged against the door, on the verge of collapse. I wanted to sleep, then and there, pass out and maybe wake up from the nightmare. I'd already tried it, but second time could be the charm. I'd just have to wait for the cue from Bernard to stagger back into the bed. They'd check the room again, of course, and then I'd have to face . . .
No. I'd run back into the bathroom again. I'd keep Bernard on watch twenty-four hours, and whenever they returned, I'd hide in the bathroom. I'd never have to face them.
I'd never . . .
What kind of idiot are you?
"They're gone, Chris," Bernard hollered from outside. Good. I could collapse on my bed now. As my hand touched on the knob, I stopped. Bernard sounded . . . cocky. He sounded happy. He sounded . . . like Parker had.
"Are you sure?" I asked uncertainly through the door.
There was a small laugh, "Of course there's nobody. Come out, you punk ass kid."
There was the Bernard I knew and hated. I twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and tapped hesitantly forward.
"Thanks for covering for me, Bernard. You had them fooled good."
"Not all of them," Parker said.
I froze. My senses tingled.
He was here!
"Bernard!" I shouted accusingly, panic rising in my voice. "Bernard, what the hell?"
"You're a nice guy, Chris," he said, sounding pleased. "You're smart too. You're just being a stupid kid."
I wanted to tear his throat out.
"You certainly set us in circles, boy," Parker continued. "West will have your head when he finds out you tricked him, but never fear. If we get you back into bed, nobody but me will be the wiser. Let's go, boy. You're acting like a fool."
There was a small tapping sound. His footfalls. A bony hand touched my arm and I jerked back, colliding with the wall.
"Don't touch me!" I yelled at him. "Don't touch me!"
"Don't be a fool," he snapped. "Let me help you." Again, his hand touched my arm, and this time, I skittered across the wall, anger smoldering inside me. Anger . . . and pain.
"Chris," Bernard said in exasperation. "Don't be an idiot, kid."
I didn't answer him. As Parker's fingertips grazed the flesh of my arm, I stepped forward quickly and collided with what I took for Bernard's bed. I yelled my pain, took the blow, and rammed along the rail until I came to the end and then hurled to the right so that I was alongside the bed.
"Chris!" Bernard yelped. "Parker, stop him!"
"He's being an idiot," Parker observed in a sulking voice. "But he needs help." This time, his hand closed on my elbow, and he held me.
Get out of it! Get out of it! Choke him!
I struggled against his hand. "Let go of me! Leave me alone! Let go of me! Don't touch me!"
Another hand came to bear upon my struggling form, and I screamed my rage and frustration at deaf ears. "Leave me alone! DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TOUCH ME! JUST DON"T TOUCH ME!" It was insane! A fifty plus man had to be holding me, and yet he was holding me as if I were a child. I should be able to break his hold . . . break his filthy fingers for doing nothing to help . . .
Nobody had helped me. Nobody was ever going to help me.
The fire inside me turned into nothing but an ember.
"It's alright, Chris, it's all right." Parker's voice was firm and strong. He handled me gently, holding both my arms in a firm, cool grip. "Everything's all right."
I wanted to sink. I wanted to drown. I wanted to see.
Just stop this pain . . . just stop this anger, just stop it all!
I realized tears were sliding down my cheeks, invading my lips, touching my tongue. I tasted the saltiness. I was crying in this man's arms. I was shaking, trembling, crying in a stranger's arms. But it felt . . . right.
"It's okay, Chris. It's okay."
He was shunting me forward, and I let him. I was limp. The tears continued to stream down my face, a steady river that had no end. There was nothing but this pain. There was nothing but this hurt.
I heard a metallic scraping sound. "Get in," Parker ordered, and pushed me forward. I felt the softness of the bed, and obliged, crawling in methodically. I scrubbed at my face, at the tears, forcing my voice to revert from whimpering to harsh breathing. Feeling around, I pushed the blanket down and maneuvered my legs under it. I pulled the blanket up to my midsection, pushed my arms underneath it, and turned away from Parker.
Just leave me alone. Let me die in my own self-pity.
"Are you alright, Chris?" Parker asked, hesitantly.
"Do you think I'm alright?" I asked harshly, all the tenses of crying gone from my voice.
I wanted to heap it all on them. Heap it all on them and then I wouldn't have to deal with it. I wouldn't have to see it . . .
"Chris, I think you're in a lot of pain," Parker said carefully. "I think you're in a lot of pain. I think you need a psychiatrist."
I laughed a scream. "You have the money so he can see me, wacko doctor? You have the fucking money so he can come here and listen to me scream? You have the money so he can come here and hear me say, 'I'm so fucking poor now, you see, because I can't see, and now I'm blind?' If you have that money, let him come. I can say everybody's gonna look at me now? My future is over? My career is over? My whole fucking life is over? What the hell do you think, Dr. Wacko? My career's over. My life's over. You do just fine listening, Dr. Wacko. I don't need some damn idiot to come and listen."
There was a silence, only Bernard's shallow breathing and Parker's heavy breathing.
"Chris, listen, you're not-" Parker started.
"I am!" I screamed. "I know my life is over! Isn't that enough? Aren't I accepting the obvious? Aren't I accepting what I can't change? Huh? Aren't I? I know my life's over, okay? Okay? Isn't that enough for you? Just leave me the fuck of alone."
Now he would leave. He'd let me die in the pity . . .
"You know what, Chris?" Parker spoke angrily. "You know what? You're so busy being with pity in yourself, you're thinking that nobody can know what you're going through. You know what, you ass? You want people to pity you. You want them to look at you and think you're so hurt. You hate it, but you want it. Boy, you have family who loves you and you're here, pushing them away. You think you're so damn special, and you ain't. You know what, boy? You make me sick. I'm trying to help you and you're acting like an ass. I don't pity you, you damn kid, I don't pity you, and nobody else does either, you fucker. And I am going to do your surgery whether you like it or not, and I am going to get your parents. Get a life, you damn idiot."
There was an angry stomping sound, there was the creak of the door, and then he was gone.
I wanted to ignore what he had said. I pushed my head into my pillow, tried to block out the words. Tried to block out what was happening. I wanted to die, I wanted to scream, I wanted to punch whatever life I had ever known back into the world.
I wanted to stop thinking. I wanted to stop knowing that Parker was right.