the fact that I’m a painter who can’t paint. An artist who can’t create. A man who can’t even see his own fucking dick hanging between his legs.
It’s been nearly a year since I lost my sight, and a part of me wonders if, eventually, even my dreams will change to the unsatisfyingly bottomless pit of monochrome shadows.
It would be both a blessing and a nightmare.
Because it’s the dreams that keep me going.
Yet, it’s also the dreams that tear me apart.
Each foray into the unattainable makes the process of mourning start all over again. Truly, you don’t know what you’re missing until it’s gone.
It’s a tortured process, but eventually, my grief becomes less acute, and I ease myself out of my bed, using only memory and sense of touch.
The bathroom I can remember, but no longer see, sits just off my bedroom—a convenience I never fully understood until after the accident.
While I piss, wash my hands and face, and brush my teeth, I visualize the stone tiles beneath my feet and remember the soft white hues of the walls. I picture the porcelain fixtures and the small gold-framed abstract painting that reflects itself in the mirror.
And I visualize myself.
My face, my hair, my jaw, my eyes. I know what they looked like a year ago, but that’s where it ends. Time has worn the lines and muddied the details of my features in ways I’ll never witness.
I slip on reflective aviators over what’s left of my eyes, and by the time I make it into the kitchen, the sounds of the front door clicking open and my brother’s voice bellowing out from the entryway reach my ears.
“Ansel!” he calls out. “You up, bro?”
“In the kitchen,” I grumble as I attempt to make coffee without it turning into a disaster.
The sink is two steps from the coffeepot.
Ten seconds of the faucet running equals four cups of water, which equals two scoops of coffee.
The can of Folger’s is one-hand’s width away from the coffeepot.
At least, it should be Folger’s. Fuck if I know what the label actually says. I am the epitome of a blind taste tester.
I follow the specific directions I’ve memorized and set the coffeemaker to brew by tapping the third button on the right.
The sound of Bram’s footsteps gets louder as he approaches, changing subtly as he transitions from the wood of the front hall to the tiles of the kitchen. “Looks like you’re off to a good start this morning.”
If I had eyes that worked, I’d sure as shit be rolling them at him.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother Bram.
Hell, everyone loves Bram. He’s the fun-loving rock star with a killer voice and enough charming swagger to sell out stadiums.
It’s the whole being blind thing I despise.
“I told you you’d get this down.”
Being blind and his holier-than-thou chipper attitude, that is.
“Oh yeah, what used to take two minutes now only takes thirty,” I grumble. “At this rate, I think a decade or so from now, I might be able to make a fucking cup of coffee in under fifteen minutes.”
My brother chuckles. Good God, he must be on uppers.
The rustling of paper ends what could have been one hell of a bitter inner diatribe.
“Did you get groceries?”
“Just a few things I figured you needed.”
Shit like this—other people helping me—is exactly what makes me feel pathetic.
While I’ve learned how to do basic things for myself over the past twelve months, I still have to rely on people like Bram to get my fucking groceries. Every Tuesday, I give him a list, and he fulfills it. A list of things I deem necessary. What I don’t need are his overachieving assumptions about what I need.
No way in hell my brother with his perfect life and perfect sight really knows what I need.
“Eggs sound good?” he asks, and the urge to swipe my hand across the kitchen counter and hear everything crash to the ground is strong.
“I don’t want any fucking eggs, Bram.”
“Okay,” he responds, an emotional flatline. My mood has officially soured the sweetness out of his. “What about toast? Oatmeal?”
He’s unwaveringly patient with me, and it only fuels my frustration.
“Bram,” I say through clenched teeth, slamming my fists down onto the counter. “I can handle it. I might be fucking blind, but I’m not an invalid. There is shit I can do for myself.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “Eat breakfast. Don’t eat breakfast. Burn the whole fucking place down for all I care.”