Blind Not Oblivious

Six

"Right this way Elliot," I heard my mother's voice say as her hand gently led me through the doorway.

I heard her drop the keys onto the small table near the front door. "Okay, so Dr.Handel said that you need to get -Jack please close the door -" she sounded exhausted and somewhat irritable, I wasn't sure if it was at her quiet son or her silent husband. I heard the door close as she continued, "You need to get used to the house by using your sense of touch and sound. So can you please walk around the house and get used to everything." I heard her walk away and put her coat on the rack just for it to fall on the floor. I stood there waiting for her to realize what she had said. What she had expected for a blind man to do on his own.

The room was stiff and silent as none of us moved. I stared ahead while I imagined both of my parents staring at the brown carpet at their feet. "I am so sorry Elliot," I heard her whisper. I wanted to tell her I wasn't mad. It was an innocent mistake. I felt my hand twitch as I stopped it from rising and finding her shoulder, because I knew that would just be pointless. It's hard to feel reassurance from a sightless 16 year old boy. 

"Jack, please help Elliot around the house. I'm going to go ... just help him." I wasn't sure if my mother was looking at my father when she said this, but I know that he wasn't looking at her or me, he was looking at his own void, his own canvas. Most likely filled with red.

"Jack! Help your son around the house!" I heard her desperately cry out. The air behind me shifted. My dad lightly put his fingertips on my shoulder blade. He began walking, forcing me to follow him rather quickly.

We walked swiftly without saying anything. I really didn't try to memorize the layout of my home. We just walked and he acted like he couldn't wait for it to be over. I wanted to try to get my father to say something, but I didn't know how.

I moved my hand and tried to touch his shoulder but he simply moved away. I wanted to tell him "I am already mute Dad, don't you leave too." 

I looked in his direction then simply stared ahead of me, losing track of where we were in our labyrinth of a house. 

His hand, before was basically hovering over my upper back, now dug into my shoulder. He pulled on me, forcing me to look in his direction. He suddenly stopped, and I heard him begin to cry.

These weren't soft tears, it was a storm. It was violent and he was shaking. He tore his hand away from me like he had had enough. As if my torture was too much pain for him.

I listened to his back slide against the wall. As his weeping grew louder. As his heart began to shatter.

I imagined his canvas to be filled with angry shades of red and purple. They were pulsing and yelling at him. Screaming his name. Repeating to him over and over to him, that half of his son will never return to him. That half of his life has drastically changed. Making him hurt. Making his heart and soul sore and torn. 

"Please Dad. I am alright, really. Everything will be fine." I wanted to comfort him, just like he did. When he would sit outside with me and help me through break-ups and lost baseball games. Where we would stare at the porch and talk about how we needed to replace the splintering wood. We never did. That porch never changed and it gave us something to talk about on those dark summer nights, where it was just me and him.

I wanted him to feel this. To feel not alone. I wanted him to feel that I was here. But again, it's hard to help when you can't see the tears or tell them that everything is alright. It's even harder when you can't even comfort yourself. 

"Elliot," I heard him cry. "Elliot!" he screamed just as the doorbell rang. 

I looked in the direction of what I thought was the door, but was wrong as I heard the voice come from somewhere else. 

"Damn Elliot. If only you could see how shitty your hair looks."