Paint it Black

Chapter 8: Day One Million. I'm Still Down Here, God

Water beads drizzled, unimpeded, off the back of his scalp. His shoulder ached without a sling to support his arm. He held it crooked across his chest as he felt around for the tap, ending the spray and wiping off his face before grabbing the metal rim of the shower door and carefully stepping out.

He used his feet to test the placement of the rug, not needing another slip on wet tile. Letting go of the shower once he was stable, he bent forward until he could get his hand on the sink and inch his way on still shaky legs to the towel folded nearby. Turning to brace his lower back against the sink, he one-handed scrubbed the wet from his body before wrapping the damp towel around his waist and slide stepped, arm waving before him, towards the door.

He dressed in he bedroom, making sure to run his hand down his chest to check that the buttons were on the front and not the back. Several times now he'd put his clothes on backward or inside out and it was always embarrassing to have either his father, Gus, or Abby notice his wardrobe malfunctions.

With the tags torn out of his t-shirt he had no idea if it was on right, though Abby had offered to sew a button on the inside seam to help him out. He'd brushed it off earlier but didn't quite know why. But with the button up shirt over the top he supposed it didn't really matter. Of course, he had no idea if the shirts clashed or not...

Maybe just the t-shirt then...

But then he was back to the original problem.

He couldn't care less if his shirts actually matched, but he hated the thought that he was being pitied for it. Poor blind man can't even dress himself. Poor blind man can't cross the street without someone holding his hand. Poor blind man can't eat without stabbing his lip with his fork.

Buttoning his shirt right up to the collar, he reached for his sling. It wasn't there. He was positive he'd left it on his pillow but now the soft velvet he'd been expecting to feel was gone. Pulling his legs up on the mattress, he felt across both pillows, slipped his hand beneath them, and even felt along the top edge were his bed met the wall. Nothing. Irritated now, he moved his investigation back to the main part of the bed, swearing with growing frequency and volume when his luck remained just as dismal.

If he could see... He squashed that thought and moved back to the pillows, first feeling across them and then flipping them off the bed completely in anger – ignoring the clatter of something toppling. He knew his temper loss wasn't helping but frustration had been short fused and swallowed too many times to hold back any longer.

“DAMN IT!” The shout felt good but the sling didn't magically whisk into his hand and the following seconds started a throb in his temples. Next to go off the bed was his blanket, though it bunched around his legs and he had to kick at it for some moments before dropping down on the center of his stripped mattress. When he rubbed his forehead it was warm and sweaty.

“Shawn?”

Crap. No way dad couldn't have heard his tantrum even if he'd been outside mowing the lawn. Shawn scooted back and let his head rest against the wall. Too much activity and his body was paying for it. His heart pounded and even that pissed him off. He was so tired of being tired.

He heard the floor creak as his father stepped into the room. Shuffling – soft – must be in his socks. Probably the ones with the holes in the heel. A grunt and joint snap as his father bent.

“Here.”

Shawn reached out after a second, his hand moving back and forth until something soft pressed into it. He felt his cheeks heat up and he barely managed to mutter out gratitude.

“You want some help...”

“I got it.”

He was tired of help.