(Mentions of drug use)
My stomach clenches, that horrible feeling of frightful shock you can't seem to quell. He's looking to me for some sort of reaction and all I can convince him of is a rabbit caught in headlights. Of all the silly things to think, I'm wondering if it's impolite to stare. He must be used to it, it's not an imperfection or embarrassing tattoo you can hide under clothes or a pass off with a jovial anecdote. It's one of the most valuable senses, helps ground you in the situation and environment around you. I can't imagine how lost he's become.
"Do you - " I quietly begin before re-evaluating. "Do you have anything for me to mop up the water?"
My hands become partially shielded behind my back because I can't keep them from quivering. I'm unsure if he's disappointed with my initiate reaction, but his brow grows heavy before mumbling about something in the kitchen. I take off after him, carefully watching his movements to try and determine how extensive the disability is. The short walk is a poor indicator because this is his home, he's mentally mapped out the interior and could probably navigate it with his eyes closed anyway.
It's completely normal as he riffles through nearly empty cupboards, apart from the obvious fact that he's blind. Fuck. I clear my throat of nerves and Harry twists his head as if I was calling for his attention. Maybe it's like looking through frosted glass, or perhaps his left eye is shrouded with dark silhouettes. If he closes his right, what will he see? I don't get to enquire because he's returned to his search of kitchen roll. Any other time I would have moaned at him for the dirty mugs left scattered by the sink. It's a little chaotic shrine of used cereal bowls, food encrusted saucepans and a horde of utensils.
"How?"
Armed with a roll of kitchen towels, Harry looks like a child being asked about the mantelpiece ornament that's been bluetacked back together. It's probably not the best approach, but there's no point in beating around the bush. He has to have known I'd ask.
"What?" He replies.
There's a skittish nature to the way he holds himself, almost as if he's unaccustomed to someone being so direct. Or maybe it's because I don't waver in maintaining eye contact. It's still him, despite how cold and shut down he's become.
"How did it happen?"
With a face void of emotion he replies, "with a knife."
The revelation causes a small choked off laugh on my part. It's humourless, like I can't begin to get my head around how lacking he is in conversational interest. He used to make me smile.
"I could have guessed that." The thought of a blade slicing his face pulls at the tension in my voice. "Why then? What happened, Harry?"
He grabs a plastic bag before moving back to the bedroom. The water has run rivers out from the initial point of impact, making the clean up on the wooden floor more wide spread. It's as Harry crouches to assess the damage that he speaks again.
"I said things I probably shouldn't have."
I'm careful not to put a foot wrong whilst walking around to sit on the side of his unmade bed. As he soaks up the water I'm deciding if I want to know details, or if it's best to not delve too deep into something I shouldn't become invested in.
"To who?" I stress.
"They give you -" Harry pauses, looking warily to me before continuing to pick up shards of glass. "It was new," he says quietly. "You get the first couple of pills free to latch you onto it, make sure you come back for more."
My hands tighten in the bed sheets as I listen.
"Drugs?"
I shift uncomfortably on the bed, trying to suppress thoughts of, "my Harry wouldn't be so foolish, that's not who he is". But of course he's not my Harry, not anymore; and now the boy knelt on the floor at my feet is even more of a stranger to me.
