The Wizard's Herbarium: The Wolf Child

Part 42

He felt like he was back in elementary school and was being picked last for the team, or maybe there was a more appropriate reference from the adult experience he wasn't aware of. No one wanted to be seen as the asshole who reminded the disabled kid they were disabled, but they didn't want him hurting himself either. Oh, poor Colt, as though he weren't an adult who could make his own decisions.

He felt a ripple of tension throughout the room. He couldn't tell how many people were in that kitchen, but at least more than one judging by the conversation he'd heard before he came in. Colt waited, wondering whether anyone would have the guts to say anything to him.

"You're that chef, right?" the voice of a young man spoke first. "My family went to that event thing you put on at Gavin's. Said the food was amazing."

Colt nodded, but didn't venture further into the kitchen. He hadn't any idea where the stove was, whether it was hot, or whether there were knives or other objects on the counter tops. It seemed like a bad idea to wander around,

"I'm just peeling vegetables. Do you wanna help?" The voice of the young man continued.

Colt was guided to a counter and a peeler was put into his hand. For the next while, he lost himself in the repetitive movements of peeling and setting the vegetables aside into the bowl. The man chatted next to him about nothing in particular, but Colt was grateful for how he treated him. It felt good to be treated normally. After the time spent in the hospital, Colt had forgotten what it felt like to be treated so normally.

----------

The next day he dedicated a good portion of it to finding a reasonable route from the gymnasium where everyone slept to the kitchen. Occasionally, people would catch him wandering around and offer to help, but Colt refused them. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent or pressing to do and keeping himself busy was the best way for him to feel as though he was overcoming his potentially permanent condition of not having his eyesight. He was glad that he was such a simple man. Colt would go to work at his restaurant for over twelve hours a day, come home, spend time with his wife and child, only to do it all again the next day. He obsessed over his restaurant and his son with everything else coming in second. He had always been focused on the next thing, overcoming any challenges that stood in his path. Such a simple mindset allowed him not to think about the fact that he was blind, and how he was able to just move on without feeling sorry for himself. Though, the feeling sorry for himself part would likely come later.

Colt didn't get to cook that day, or even chop vegetables. He felt the overwhelming need to figure out his route, not wanting to rely on anyone else and especially nosy old ladies. He didn't like feeling their pitying stares as he moved about with his cane tapping against the floor. He didn't want to be pitied and he didn't want their help. If this was the condition that he was forced to live with for the rest of his life, then he wanted to learn how to overcome it himself. It was as though this third option wasn't even in their minds, and instead he'd become some sort of invalid who couldn't do anything for himself.

His route secured to the kitchen, Colt used it the next day, making it there before anyone else. He stood in the silence and whooped out loud, feeling as though he'd conquered an entire country with an army instead of just walking into a kitchen. In the dead silence, Colt knew that nothing was boiling on the stove or in the oven. After years in the kitchen, he knew the click of the oven heating up and the bubble of something on the stove. So, he set to getting to know the kitchen. Those who had been using the kitchen weren't professional cooks (to Colt's knowledge) and it wouldn't be unheard of for them to leave knives on the counters or drying next to the sinks. Colt moved carefully, shuffling his feet forward because he'd already stubbed his toe on stuff a good few times. He'd learned to move with an ambling shuffle, dragging his feet across the floor instead of stepping. This came after only a couple days of sleeping in the gymnasium. People were messy and so many of them crammed into a tiny space meant that he had plenty to trip or stub his toe on.

Colt wasn't sure how long he fumbled around the kitchen for. He wasn't even fully confident that he could cook a meal in a strange place without help. He confirmed that the kitchen did indeed not have knives laying around on the counter that Colt was glad to not have discovered and slice himself right open.

As he was standing there, probably looking dumb, he heard footsteps come towards the kitchen. In an odd feeling, he felt... defensive, as though he would have to fight this person for the right to stand in the middle of the kitchen. Without the use of his eyesight, he supposed that he was afraid that someone would tell him to get out because he would have told someone else the same thing. A professional kitchen was a fast-paced, chaotic environment and Colt couldn't have had someone missing a sense as important as their eyesight. It put him too much at risk as a business owner. But this wasn't a professional kitchen.

"Yo, Colt. I'm glad to see you're still in the kitchen." It was unmistakably a kid's voice that sounded familiar. Colt frowned, which earned him a laugh and then it clicked.

"Abi."

"Yes, sir. Mom and Dad told me you were hanging around here and so I came to see how you were doing. Either you're being a creep and standing in the kitchen for no reason, or you're trying to cook. Want a little help?"