72.) Blind (combined with Radio Star)
The Shape of a Voice
He fell in love with her voice, because that was all he had, at first. With others, at least he had a skim of fingers against an arm, the sweet or spicy scent of cologne, or the unexplainable prickle on the back of his neck that told him they were nearby.
But with her, he only had a voice.
He remembered the first time he heard it, not long after the accident. Back then he'd still been stuck in the hole of self-pity and misery he'd been faithfully digging every day. He was still figuring out how to adjust, how to restart a life that would never truly be the same. Dr. Marcoh kept reassuring him that there was a strong possibility of regaining his sight, but that was small consolation. He almost would rather there be no chance of seeing again; then, at least, there would be no painful spark of hope flickering in his chest. As it was, those days had passed in a despondent blur, punctuated only with the kind (yet exasperated) words of his friends, who tried the best they could but would never understand his situation. He didn't blame them for that.
It was then that he took to listening to the radio at the side of his bed. He'd never been one for talk shows or radio programs, but since books were out of the question (until he learned that complicated tactile system used for people like him), radio was one of the last modes of entertainment he had left.
After a whole hour of listening to a handful of different stations, he was very close to giving it up completely. He had tried to listen closely, to absorb the words and appreciate the stories being told. But there were too many words, all rocketing from the radio grills like bullets. They talked of everything and nothing and all that came between. If Roy were to get up from his hospital bed, then surely he would have to wade through an ocean of chatter to cross the room.
There was no finesse, Roy decided. No care and no thought and no time put into their shows. It irked him. If he were to rely on sound now, the least they could do was to fill the silence with words that meant something .
He reached over to the radio and felt around for the power button. His fingers brushed the tuning knob, knocking it slightly to the right. A burst of static crackled in the air, and that was when he heard her voice.
It made him pause, his fingers hovering over the dial, as her smooth alto drifted through the speakers. It was like a physical thing, her voice, keeping him from switching the radio off. He listened thoughtfully, hand still outstretched in the air, letting her voice wrap around his fingers and arm as it wound its way to his ears.
Her voice was lower for a woman, with a steel-tempered edge that added a fascinating dynamic. She had iron in her voice, she had thunder, and she had fire. There was no crossing the voice on the radio, and Roy found himself drawn in the more he listened.
And yet, her voice was not the only thing drawing him in. It was her words as well, picked out with such care, hardly a single one wasted or thrown away. Concise bordering on brusque, she was not one to toss off an ill-thought out remark. What she did say, she absolutely meant. In a time where Roy was beginning to discover the lengths people will go to in recovering from an unfortunately placed comment about his recently lost eyesight, her unapologetic (and often very well thought out) opinions kept him sane.
Her name was Riza Hawkeye, and she hosted a show that aired on weekday afternoons between two and four. Roy became a regular listener, and slowly, in small increments no one could really notice or point out, he began to climb out of his self-made hole.
It was hard, but then again, all recovery is. There were times when he slipped, reverting back to an old habit he'd thought he'd broken. He still caught errant thoughts of self-pity, but he was learning to banish them away. Riza helped, with her dry comments and her unflinching take on what it meant to live and be human. "You've got to do whatever you can to help those around you," she'd sometimes say. "And that sometimes means putting aside what you want and focusing on the world outside of yourself."
Talk about a kick in the pants.
But it was a kick in the pants he needed, and so he listened faithfully, hearing more of her voice than he thought others might, simply because he was growing so attuned to the sense. Without sight, his ears grew sharp, and maybe that's why he enjoyed her show so much. Even if the words stayed the same, it wouldn't be, without her voice.
And he'd never once met her.
He didn't tell anyone about his interest (infatuation?) with the show. Would they find it creepy? Or, in the case of his best friend, would they find some embarrassing meaning behind it and tease him mercilessly? He didn't want to risk either, so her kept quiet, opting instead to listen on his own, in the comfort of his home.
Months passed like this, and Roy didn't miss a single show if he could help it. He began to think of Riza as a friend, albeit one who only talked at scheduled times and couldn't ever actually answer him. He debated calling in to the radio program once, but decided it would probably be best if he didn't. The way she could tear apart a rude or ignorant caller in mere seconds told him enough about his chances (not that he was ignorant or rude, but he had a feeling that she could still dress him down in less time than it took to blink). But even though he never talked to her, every afternoon still felt like a conversation.
Her voice became a steady constant in a life that often felt like it was on the verge of upheaval every other week. The program was always there, and thought the topics changed wildly from week to week, her voice was the same. That steel-laced speech, calm and unflappable and dry never failed. And Roy began to realize that he felt much more attached to Riza than he should have, considering she didn't even know he existed. Every so often he would remember this, and he would consider not turning on his radio at 1:55, but he didn't think he had the strength for it. She'd gotten him through an extraordinarily difficult period in his life, and she couldn't just let it go like that was nothing. So he listened, and he tried to keep himself from wondering what she was like when she wasn't behind the microphone.
Things could have stayed like this infinitely, had it not been for the Saturday that Roy decided to walk to the park. Now, Roy wasn't a walk person. He most definitely wasn't a park person. But Maes had been pestering him about staying locked up in his house all the time (it wasn't his fault he worked at home now!) and growing paler by the day. Since Roy could no longer see his own complexion and certify that Maes was, in fact, telling the truth, he decided to take his friend's assertion on faith.
So there he was, swinging his cane across the sidewalk, sunglasses perched on his nose, following the path he knew led to the park. Everything had been going smoothly until his cane bumped up against what felt like a human leg, over to his left.
"Sorry about that," he said, managing to completely conceal his irritation. Usually people moved out of the way for him, and he could avoid these awkward encounters. He knew what would come next: a snippy remark, followed by a pregnant, tense pause, then a hasty, overdone apology. It sickened him, how everyone tripped over themselves to fix what was honestly a relatively small mistake. He was blind, and to some people, that stripped him of his humanity. He couldn't stand it.
But what he heard next was not a terse reply, or a flowery apology. What came next stunned him completely. Because he knew that voice.
"No, it's my fault. I didn't see you, or else I'd've moved out of the way. Sorry about that."
He froze, unsure of what to do. Because that was Riza's voice, but what was it doing here, on the street in front of him, instead of the radio on his coffee table? The lack of context threw him off, and for a moment, he wondered if he'd gotten it wrong. Surely it couldn't be Riza…but what if it was?
"Everything alright?" she asked him, and he tilted his head to better hear her voice. No, this was her. He should know, he'd listened to it every weekday for months.
"I'm sorry," he said again, but this one was more hesitant, "it's just…I think I've heard your voice before. This may be a weird question, but are you by any chance on the radio?"
She chuckled, and the sound confirmed his suspicions. "You've got a good ear. Yes, I am."
"Riza Hawkeye, right?" He really hoped that hadn't sounded as creepy as it did to him.
"You're right." He couldn't see it, but he imagined her head dipping in a nod.
He hesitated, rolling his words carefully on his tongue, tasting each and weighing the consequences of saying them. Finally, he decided to say what he'd been wanting to tell her almost form the beginning, consequences be damned. If she thought him strange afterwards, well, she didn't ever have to see him again.
"This might sound bizarre to you, but I sort of wanted to thank you. For your show, I mean." Here came the hard part. Roy braced himself, then pulled off his sunglasses and pointed his eyes in the direction Riza's voice was coming from. His eyes weren't clouded over or anything like that, but being blind had the unfortunate side effect of being unable to focus on anything. His black eyes always stared straight ahead, often appearing to look through whoever he was talking to. It was unsettling to most, so Roy had taken to wearing dark shades everywhere. But he took them off now, to illustrate his point.
"This happened about a year ago," he said, gesturing with the sunglasses and the cane he held by his side. "It was…a pretty dark time for me. I started listening to the radio just for something to do, and I came across your show. Kinda helped me out. So thanks, I guess." It came out almost sounding like a question, and was more uncertain than he'd've liked, but the words were out there. He'd said them, and somehow felt lighter now that they were gone from his mind.
There was a long silence, which gave Roy enough time to start panicking and wonder if he'd just done something monumentally stupid. But before he could stammer out an apology and beat a hasty retreat, Riza spoke again. "Thank you," she said quietly, and her voice sounded thick like syrup. "I'm glad I could do something for you."
Roy felt bold, standing there talking to a woman he'd previously only heard over the radio. Here was someone he'd grown close to through voice alone, and now he had a chance to meet the person behind the microphone. He wasn't stupid, he knew that she was probably much different than the radio made her seem, but that didn't scare him or put him off any. It filled him with a kind of buzzing anticipation, and maybe that was what pushed him to ask: "If you're not doing anything, would you like to join me for a walk?"
Riza's answer was immediate. "As long as you keep that cane of yours to yourself."
Any other person might have taken offense at her words, but Roy knew her voice well enough to hear the humor lacing it. He found it refreshing, that she would make a quip such as that after only just meeting him. Maybe she could sense that he was not one to relish the tripping excuses made by those who didn't know how to treat him, or maybe she refused to treat anyone that way. Whatever it was, Roy was glad for her sharp bite. God knew she needed it when it came to him.
One walk soon turned into another, which soon became coffee, which then turned into a steady companionship. Riza was invaluable when it came to tasks Roy couldn't always manage himself, and aside from a few (okay, more than a few) flippant remarks about his uselessness at certain things, she always managed to keep him on track.
She was his best friend and his partner. Her voice invaded his life more than it already had, and everyday Roy silently thanked Maes and his belief in the power of walks.
When his vision slowly returned years later, and he could finally see the beautiful woman he'd first heard on the radio (with her silky blonde hair and her fierce brown eyes), he would still say with absolute certainty that he loved her voice the most.
