Blinded

I wake up in the morning. At least I think it’s morning. And at least I think I wake up. I don’t really know anymore. It’s getting hard to tell whether I actually wake up or just sleepwalk.
Yet, I always wake up to the same realization: If I was sleepwalking, I would be able to see where I was going.
Since I realize it’s not a dream, I grab onto whatever I can and carefully crawl out of my bunk. I can’t smell coffee. I sigh lightly.
Even though I know no one is awake, I still walk towards the kitchen area – feeling the bunks and panels as I walk.
I might be able to find something eatable. That is, if I can open the fridge and get anything out.
I hate my own fucking stupidity. Pouring coffee all over myself. Stupid!
I find the fridge door, and hook a wrapped up hand into the handle. It hurts, but I get the door open. I carefully reach a hand into the slightly colder space. My fingertips bump lightly against something and I freeze.
I let my fingertips brush against something. It feels dry and a bit rough – like cardboard. But a little smoother.
Juice?
I reach in with both hands and try to find the sides of it – letting my fingertips slide over the material.
I place my wrapped-up hands on each side of the box and squeeze them together – the box between them. When I feel like I’ve got a good enough grip, I lift it.
It slips.
I sigh, before I reach around it and try again.
This time I’m able to hold onto it and get it out of the fridge. I aim to put it on the countertop which I know is right next to the fridge. I take a step to my right and slowly try to feel for the edge of the table. I feel it with my hip, and I focus on carefully putting down the box.
My hands are starting to hurt.
Suddenly the box slips. My right hand seems be slightly ahead of my left, and the box slips out of my hands.
I freeze.
Then I hear it drop on the floor – a thud followed by a splash. It probably was juice.
I then feel my socks get wet. Great. Just fucking great!

“Gerard?” I hear Ray call.
I sigh.

“Yeah.”
I hear his footsteps come closer. My socks are getting more and more soaked.

“Morning.” He yawns. I just stand still and wait for him to open his fucking eyes and help me!
I hear his footsteps come to a sudden halt. Okay, good. Now help me!
“What happened?” he asks groggily.

“What the fuck do you think happened?” I sound a little ruder than I’d liked, but fuck that! It’s morning, I just woke up and spilled juice every-fucking-where! I’m not a morning person! Sue me!

“Fine,” he snarls at me. Okay, sorry! Sorry for being fucking blind and not seeing a fucking thing AND have my hands wrapped up so I can’t do anything on my fucking own! I’m sorry for being such a bother!
I feel Ray pat my feet – probably with some paper towels. I haven’t even heard him take some.
“I’m gonna go get a towel. Just stand still.” He sounds annoyed. I hear his footsteps leave.
Maybe I should just go home – just call off the tour and go home. I’m too much of a bother. I’m too much of a stupid invalid to handle. And I’m too fucking stubborn to realize it.
I hear Ray’s footsteps return. I hear his knees pop as he crouches down next to me and grab a hold of my angle.
“Okay. Just lift you foot up?” I reach out in front of me and quickly find the counter. I hold onto it as I lift my foot.
Ray pulls off my sock, before he wipes my foot dries with the towel.
“Okay. Just move back a bit.” I lead my foot back – trying to follow wherever Ray is trying to lead it. Soon I feel the floor.
“Now the next foot.” I lift up my other foot, which Ray also de-socks and dries. Then he leads it back next to my other one.
“Okay. I’m just gonna clean this up. Can you find the couch on your own?”

“Yeah,” I say as I nod, before I turn around and guide my way to the couch next to the opposite counter. My feet feel a little sticky.
I sit down and listen to the sounds of paper towel after paper towel is being thrown in the trash – the plastic bag making a distinct rustle as it moves.
I hear footsteps approach.

“What happened here?” Mikey asks. I lower my head. We should stop the tour. I shouldn’t be such a burden to them. I’m such a fucking cluts! I can’t even get a cup of coffee or some juice on my own. I can’t take a piss on my own. Whenever we watch TV I have to suppress the urge to constantly ask what’s going on. Whenever we eat, I have to be fed. Everything I drink is through a straw. Whenever I want some fresh air, I need someone to walk with me and guide me and inform me of practically every little pebble on the ground. Whenever we go on stage, I need someone to guide me over to the mike. And after that, I can’t move. All I do is just stand there and sing. My voice isn’t that good. Half of my talent – if not more – is in my movement. The way I move and sway my hips is what the fans swoon over. They don’t swoon over my voice alone.
“Gee? Are you okay?” I look up. Well, no. I raise my head as if to look up.
But I don’t need to see in order to see Mikey’s worried face. Sounded odd…

“Yeah. I’m fine.” My voice is just above a whisper – not convincing at all. I lower my head again – preparing myself for Mikey’s worried voice and his arm around my shoulder.
Sure enough, Mikey sits down next to me on the couch and throws an arm over my shoulders – squeezing briefly.

“What’s going on?” I let out a short laugh. That question is way beyond stupid.
But he knows the obvious – and still he asks. He knows there’s more going on than just the annoyance of losing my sight. He reads me too well.
I sigh.

“Do you think we should cancel the rest of the tour?” A silence falls. I know ray is still in the room, ‘cause I haven’t heard him leave yet. But still, they’re both silent. I can’t help but think that they might be exchanging some look – perhaps a worried one.
They don’t want to stop the tour, do they? Oh, fuck. I can’t just tell them to stop. I can’t just stop the tour – just because I feel like it. I mean, sure, I have a fucking good reason, but that doesn’t mean that I can just pull the plug and make a decision for all of us. We’re a band! I can’t just act all ego-centered and make it all about me.
“Sorry. Just forget it. I mean… I can deal. I’m good.”

“Gerard,” Mikey says – slightly annoyed. I stop talking.
“Do you want to go home?” I frown lightly. Do I? If I go home, then I would be just as much of a hassle. People would still have to take care of me.

“No.” I don’t. Why be a pathetic hassle, when I can be a ‘oh my god, I can’t believe he’s still performing’-kind of hassle?

“Are you sure?” Mikey squeezes my shoulder lightly. I smile lightly, but genuinely.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”