Chapter 2: Ugly Eunuchs Under a Vow of Silence

Summary: Sands, healing under the care of Chicle's Grandmother, thinks about his future so-called life. He doesn't like what he doesn't see.

If his calculations were correct – which they probably weren't, since telling time was a bit difficult at present – he had been in the house for some eight days. In that time, he had somehow gotten attached to the little old lady (not that little nor that old, really), much in the way that one gets attached to a mongrel who hangs around you all day.

The Kid, now the kid was a different thing. He owed The Kid his life. And he owed him his Myth.

Oh, there would be a myth about the Blind Gunfighter from the Day of the Dead: he had no doubt about that. After all, his tale had all the components of a poem told over candlelight; and this was Mexico, where an opportunity for Hero-worship was never passed over. Just look at the fuckmook with the guitar, for a glaring and perfect example. El My Butt.

There was a lot you could say about Agent Sands (most of it being impolite in good company), but you had to give him credit for strictly abiding by his Code of Honour.

It wasn't a particularly lengthy Code. Point One said that anything goes. Point Two said you didn't touch women or children.

(The recently created amendment to Point Two said that people called María 'Ajedrez' Barillo weren't women – they were fucking insane bloodthirsty bitches and, therefore, fair game.)

Then there was Point Three, which said that if someone saved your life, it was your duty to look after their life. So Chicle (sorry, Gabriel) was under his protection, even though there had to be a loophole somewhere. After all, he was saved when he plainly wanted to die, which condemned him to forever living in fucking blind helplessness.

Blind. It amused him to no end how his brain always managed to sneak that word into every thought that fleeted through his mind. Blind. Blind. Blind.

"Never again" - he still struggled to fully comprehend the meaning of this expression, struggled to grasp the inevitable sense of eternity that it enclosed.

Never again. He'd never see again. No fucking sunshine. No fucking grey days. No seas, no lands. None of Cucuy's ugly joke-of-nature mug. None of The Mariachi's melodramatic pained looks. No wide-eyed cooks pleading for their life while puerco pibil marinated in tequila. No eyeholes asking to be skull-fucked.

Eyeholes. Funny how he now had two of his very own, and he'd never get to see them. Truth be told, they might not be something he'd want to see: Bellini's eye-socket had thoroughly disgusted him. On the ugliness scale from Cucuy to Margaret Thatcher, The Socket came just before Janet Reno.

Ugly. He stopped to wonder if it was legitimate to mourn the loss of his looks when he was supposed to be mourning the loss of his sight. (The loss of his sight, Oh God!) He supposed it just meant he was superficial, as well. An ugly, superficial blind fucker. Oh how Ajedrez had improved him!

No woman would have him now. No man, either, but that, of course, was a good thing. He wasn't prepared to consider the possibilities that sheep offered, so he was looking at a life of celibacy. An ugly, superficial, celibate blind fucker. Non-fucker, actually. (He almost chuckled at his own joke.)

Maybe he should join a monastery. He could be celibate there, and not feel out of place. And you didn't need eyes to kneel in your cell all day from 4 am, praying for atonement. He could even join one of those Orders that obey a vow of silence, to make sure none of his fellow monks turned to him and shouted "Holy Fuck, what the Hell happened to your eyes?!". He briefly wondered if he'd have to cut his hair into a bob and shave the top of his head.

His brain decided to put a dent in his plans for a life of service by reminding him that he wasn't a Catholic. Hell, he wasn't even religious. He could be mistaken, but believing in God was probably a requirement when one applied for Monkhood.

Sands then wondered if there were still any job opportunities for eunuchs, out there. Was there a harem somewhere in Turkey in dire need of his eyeless celibate self?

In the depths of his subconscious, he knew what he was doing. He knew that thinking about his blindness as if it were a joke was just a ruse his brain was using to stop from considering the real issues. Issues like Braille, white cane, disability, darkness, disorientation, pain.

Yes, it was much better to think about Turkish Harems and Silent Monks.

He was just about to start contemplating his employability as a horror movie extra, when a doorbell echoed through the house.

From what he had been able to gather, his room was located on the left side of the house. His bed faced a door – which was usually closed – through which was a hall or living-room. The front door opened into it, and he guessed that if he had eyes, he might be able to see the door from his position in bed.

Beyond the "main room" was a kitchen (revealed by the clanking of pots and pans) and one or more rooms that he knew nothing about. He had recently stopped caring about what was beyond his reach. If he didn't see it, it didn't exist.

The kid's grandmother jingled some pans in the kitchen, and then walked to the front door, softly talking to herself. Sands heard the door open and the old woman launched into an explosion of joy, as someone walked into the house. It was clearly somebody she had wanted to see.

His brain couldn't resist the opportunity of pointing out to him that that was because, unlike some people, she could see.

The woman blabbered on, asking a myriad questions (how are you - are you hungry – how was the trip), but never stopping to listen for an answer. As she spoke, her voice changed pitch slightly, as she noisily stampeded her way through the room with the Visitor.

Unexpectedly, Grandmother stopped walking and lowered her voice to a whisper. Sands realized she was talking about him. The Visitor finally spoke, also in a whisper, but he could hear enough to realize that it was a woman, not too old nor too young.

A woman! Was it just him, or were things finally starting to look up? ("Look up", there's something else he couldn't do.) He was grinning to himself and pondering the endless possibilities that the presence of a woman in the house offered, when his brain spoke up.

"Ugly celibate eunuch" was all his brain had to say, but he knew what it meant.

He was preparing to launch into a beautiful moment of masochistic self-pity when he was distracted by the fact that the two women had raised their voices to a normal conversational tone. His Spanish was much more than adequate, so he could easily follow what they were saying.

'I've got to go out to the vegetable market,' this was Grandmother speaking, he knew her voice. 'You look after him.'

The image of a sexy bombshell in a skimpy nurse costume "looking after him" (hint hint) fleeted across his mind's eye. (That one Ajedrez had let him keep.)

'Where's Gabri?' the younger voice asked, and there was a hint of sad expectation in it that even an inconsiderate bastard like Sands couldn't miss.

The older woman waited a few seconds before answering in a defeated voice. 'Out selling Chicle. Sheldon's medicine was expensive.'

He had thought he couldn't possibly feel worse than he had been feeling that morning, but he should have known better.

There was a child out there peddling gum to uncaring tourists, to pay for his pills. Pills that, incidentally, couldn't give him his eyes back.

Fuck.

He wriggled further down between the bedsheets, pulled them over his head, and willed himself to unconsciousness.