Beauty and The Blind

Chapter Eleven

I'm an idiot.

I was this close to exchanging numbers with Sitara. I was going to give her mine, and then obviously, I'd get hers when she texted me. I'm wicked smart, right? Then I figured we'd start texting each other and I could ask her if we could get together outside of the library.

What the hell was I thinking?

There I was, trying to figure out a way to ask her out, when she was on her way to a date of her own. With a guy who—just guessing here—isn't blind. I bet she was looking at her watch and trying to work out a nice way to tell me she had to leave. Usually I pick up on cues like that, but it was hard when I couldn't see the expression on her face. I really thought...

Well, it's stupid to think about that. Obviously, I was wrong. She was just being nice to me because I'm so goddamn pathetic. She felt sorry for me.

Looking back, she did seem uncomfortable when I offered to give her my number. Why did I do that? Shit, I hope she doesn't think she needs to have a talk with me where she lets me down easy. Just the thought of it makes me not want to ever come back here again.

But I need to return my braille books. And get new ones. Even though I feel like I can barely face Sitara again, I want the next set of books she picked out for me. But maybe I don't need to listen to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn . Christ, why did I say that to her? I sounded like such a goddamn pathetic loser. Stupid, stupid...

All right, the damage is done. Nothing I can do about it now.

After several more minutes of sitting at the table in the library, silently berating myself, I get sick of it. My mother won't be back for at least another fifteen minutes, so I decide to go take a walk. It's a nice day—I'd rather be outside. Maybe I'll walk around the block.

It's nice outside. The warm, summer air makes me feel marginally better about the whole thing. I still want to punch a wall, but not as much. I'll do one loop around the block and get back before my mother arrives and has a panic attack because she can't find me.

I walk slower than even my usual pace because I've never done this loop, and I don't want to accidentally walk off the edge of a curb. I can feel curbs with my cane, but I still get nervous when I have no idea if it's coming or not. Once I have a mental map of this block, I'll feel better about it.

In front of the library, I can hear the noise of the street, but as I turn the first corner, it gets a lot quieter. And darker. When I get to the next corner, I smell garbage—I must be near a trash bin. I slow down my already hesitant steps, not eager to walk into a pile of garbage or dip my cane into one. I also start breathing through my mouth. Walking through garbage is not making me feel better.

And then I smell cigarettes.

Smoke isn't great for me. I spent over a month on a ventilator when I was first in the hospital—I even had a trach for a while. My lungs were scarred, and while I can breathe okay again now, any type of smoke makes me cough. I've got a rescue inhaler at home, which I don't bring with me when I go out, because as I said earlier, I'm dumb.

I'm not coughing yet, but I'm questioning my decision not to turn around when I first smelled the garbage. It's also dark back here, like I'm in an alley. It's hard to see even outlines. I wonder if it would be better to turn around now or just keep going at this point.

"Hey," a voice says. One of the cigarette-smokers. He sounds young. Like a teenager. At first I think he's talking to me, but then he says, "I think that guy is blind."

"Oh yeah," another voice says. And he laughs.

My grip on the cane tightens. If I could see, I'm pretty sure I could kick the ass of either of these kids or likely even both at once. I bet they've got scrawny girl arms, and don't even know how to throw a punch. But the fact that I don't know where they are makes it challenging.

"Watch this," I hear one of the kids say to the other. A moment later, his voice reappears, louder this time: "Hey, mister, you gotta pay a fee to pass here."

He's close to me. I can almost make him out. I want to take a swing at his abdomen. I've been trained in hand-to-hand combat, and I'm convinced if I could get my hands on one of these kids, I could grapple him to the ground and it would be all over. Maybe. But the problem is, there are two of them. I'm having trouble envisioning how any fight between me and two guys who aren't blind doesn't result in me getting my ass handed to me. (And possibly getting dumped in the garbage bin)

"You gonna pay up?" the kid asks me.

I don't know what to do. I didn't bring my wallet with me, but I've got money in my pocket. I have a hundred rupee note I took from the carefully organized piles of bills I keep in my room. I didn't expect to be spending any money, so I almost didn't bring it.

"Hey, mister, can't you talk?"

"Maybe he's a mute. Right? Like, a blind-mute?"

That's a deaf-mute, you dumbass.

I decide to just keep walking, figuring these kids are all talk. But before I walk another step, I feel a hand shove me in the shoulder. I can now see the dim shadow of one of them right in front of me.

"I told you, you gotta pay to pass," the kid says. "Shit, are you dumb or something?"

"Just grab his bag," the other kid says.

"No!" I yelp. I've got stuff in my bag I don't want to lose. My phone, for one thing. And my books. I quickly fumble around in my pocket for the hundred rupee. "I'll give you money, okay?"

"So he can talk," one of the boys snorts. "Hurry up, mister. Or we'll take your cane too."

Fuck them. Fuck these assholes. I want to swing at them so bad, but I know at this point that they'll take everything I've got if I try to fight them. So I pull out the hundred rupee note and thrust it in the direction of the boy I can almost see.

"That's all you got?"

"Yeah, it's all I got," I hiss at them. "You think I'm rich or something, asshole?"

"Hey, who do you think you're calling an asshole?"

I feel another shove in my shoulder, and for a moment, I think I've got a fight on my hands, and I don't mind one bit. I want it. I want that moment when my fist connects with one of their faces, even if I get it worse than they do. I feel my hand balling into a fist. What's the point of lifting all those weights if I can't even hit some punk kids who are trying to mug me?

But then I hear one of the kids say, "Leave him alone—we got his money. Come on, let's get out of here."

Their footsteps pound against the pavement. And then their voices and the smell of cigarette smoke fades into nothingness. All I can smell now is garbage. Comforting, safe garbage.

I take a deep breath, collecting my bearings. Okay, it could have been worse. I've still got my cane and my phone and my bag. The only thing I lost was hundred rupees.

And my dignity, of course. But that's not worth anything anymore.

Relaxing to my new schedule of updating daily?