(A/N at the end)

Chapter 5 – Walk Like an Egyptian

Summary: Sands takes another step on the path towards regained independence.

García was gone.

Sands had thrown a little party inside his head the moment he heard the door close with the doctor on the wrong side of it – a jolly fiesta, complete with fireworks and The Marifucker playing the Malagueña on his stupid guitar. (Or maybe it was the Cucaracha. Heard one mariachi song, heard them all.)

In what could only be described as a trade-up, Grannykins had come back home from the market. ("Home?" When had he started to think of this miserable shack as Home?) The old gal had beelined for the kitchen to prepare dinner, and was now clanking her pots and pans in elation. The woman was positively orgasmic about cooking.

He was glad she was back: the house always felt silent and empty without her – and that, in turn, made his blackness seem much darker.

Dark.

Sands touched the pads that covered his eyes, then turned his attention to the wound on his left arm, fingering the still-healing flesh. Though he had spent all week pointedly ignoring his bullet-holes, he found himself unexpectedly pleased that the bandages were gone from his limbs.

Fact: any part of your body started itching like a bitch the moment you slapped a bandage on it - something that García did with gusto. The doctor would have carved one heck of a career for himself as an embalmer to the Pharaohs.

Pharaohs. Sands decided he was an Ancient Egyptian King in a sarcophagus. That's why he couldn't see – he was dead and sealed in granite.

Any day now, he would complete his journey to the Underworld and come back to life and to light. (Oh, light!) He would then spend eternity contemplating the Egyptian sunset on the banks of the Nile, while sensuous Nubians in see-through linen gowns peeled grapes for him.

A slave-girl with myrrh in her hair knelt at his feet and offered him a song. He was about to ask her for much more than that, when the kid's Grandmother walked into his room.

Even he had to admit that lying in the mummy position, with forearms crossed over his chest, had been taking it a bit too far. Grandma Esperanza screamed and launched into a fascinating medley of Spanish prayers, punctuated throughout by a few dozen deep-felt Amens. Sands could almost see her crossing herself. ("Almost" being the keyword.)

Gloria must have heard this attack of fervorous religiousness, because she was in the room faster than you could say "Holy Spirit". Esperanza, her prayers spent, started mumbling something about vegetables getting overcooked, and flew back to her pans.

He couldn't hear Gloria moving, but he hadn't heard her leave his room, either. 'You're still there,' he said, with well-practiced disinterest. He might as well have been commenting on the weather.

'Sheldon, what are you doing in bed?' She made it sound as if she had expected him to be tap-dancing in the middle of the Plaza.

'What does it look like I'm doing?' Alright, now that was a stupid thing to say; ironic on too many levels. Fuck figures of speech. 'I'm lying here. Picture an eye-roll.'

She ignored his attempt at confrontation. (She seemed good at that.) 'Didn't you hear what Dr. García said?'

'Yes. Well, um, actually no.' Was it his fault the man was just so goddamn boring? Could anyone possibly stay tuned in to his dissertations on the growth of scar tissue?

Yes, he tuned out. And he'd tune out again and again until the day the doctor said something Sands wanted to hear. Something that included the words "miraculous surgery" and "restored sight".

On that day it would also be possible to go skiing in Hell.

'Sheldon, you have to get up,' Gloria broke into his thoughts, just when he was about to start thinking about Swedish skiers in skin-tight lycra suits that revealed taut nipples. Damn her.

"Get up". No, didn't sound like a good idea. Getting up was something that he only did when Mr. Bladder called and he could no longer pretend he wasn't home. Gabriel would walk him to the bathroom, help him back, and that was it.

"In bed". Now that was a good place to be. You couldn't walk into anything, you couldn't get lost, and lying in darkness was normal (at least, for 12 hours out of 24).

He was about to explain all this to Gloria, but realized it would take some time, so he settled for 'Why?'

'Because you don't want a trombeem... ' she broke off, clearly out of her depth. Sands found himself wondering if she had ever even made it through middle school.

'A thromboembolism?' He used his best patronizing tone, a tone that hadn't seen a lot of action since Cucuy had turned to the dark side. (Insert sign of the Cross.)

'Yes. Dr. García said you have to start moving around,' she explained. He knew this was true. Even in hospitals, patients were encouraged to get up and about as soon as possible, to avoid clots.

But Sands wasn't about to play a nice game of "Dr. García says". Dr. García says get up. Dr. García says walk into the living-room. Slam into that wall. Nuh-uh, I didn't say "Dr. García says"!

'Move around? I can't see my fucking way!' He knew this was preaching to the Pope, but that didn't stop him.

The mattress dipped as she sat on the edge of the bed. He half-expected her to melodramatically take his hand into hers, but apparently she wasn't the theatrical type. Good.

'Look,' she started, in that unnerving level voice. ("Look"?! Could she possibly have picked a worse word?) 'Look, telling me you can't see doesn't work. Where other people may feel pity, or guilt, or something, I won't. And you know why? Because I know that it's not that bad.'

'Not that...!?' he started, but she cut him off.

'No point. I know exactly how it is. Been there, done that, Sheldon, for much longer than you.' Still level. 'So instead of telling me what it's like to be blind, why don't you let me tell you?'

The really shitty thing was she was absolutely right. It frustrated his balls off.

He wanted people to recoil from his rage, to fear it; he wanted them to agree that he was the unluckiest, sorriest, most miserable son of a bitch on the face of the earth. He. Had. No. Eyes.

But no, what he got from Gloria were sickly-sweet things like "support" and "empathy". Shouting at her was as pointless as screaming at a fucking wall. Shit-on-wheels, he could really empty a clip into someone right now!

'C'mon,' she said, and this time she did take his hand, tugging on it as she rose from the bed. 'Let me show you the house.'

Fuck it, maybe it was time he found out what lay beyond the kitchen.

So he got up.

A/N – Once again, I would like to thank four very kind people for their support:

Quick29 – :o) Allowing Sands to really Feel is what prompted me to dabble in this story.

In the 3rd Act of OUATIM, Rodriguez shows us how Sands has no time to think or feel - he can only act on instinct. I wanted to see what would happen the moment he let his brain concentrate on his new reality.

Mojave Dragonfly – Heh heh, no that isn't all I wanted to say. ;o) The first chapter I wrote takes place about 6 weeks or 2 month after the DotD, and I've been writing back in time from there. It's a bit strange to know where Sands will end up, and then work on getting him there.

Annys – "He wouldn't be the usual sightless superman." Eep! You're in my head! :O

The first chapter I wrote (see above reply to Mojave Dragonfly) is called "No Comic Book Hero". :o) That was also going to be the title of the complete Fic, until I changed it for some unknown reason just before uploading.

Savvy Tbird – Will Sands get his cool back? ;o) Just wait till he discovers that Playboy has a Braille edition! :op

Just kidding. ;o) But yes, he'll definitely get his cool back. :o) (And yes, there is a Braille edition.)