Blinded

Frank broke his leg. I don’t know how – all I know is that a few hours after he broke my heart, he came home with crutches. Ray helped him into his bunk.
That’s where he is now – just across the narrow hallway, in his bunk.
It doesn’t hurt anymore. Nothing hurts anymore.
I’m just numb.
Frank’s iPod is blaring out music. It usually annoys me. It usually means that he’s shutting me out. He is now, but it doesn’t annoy me.
I don’t know why.
I don’t know anything. I don’t know when or how or why.
I need to know.
I think.
Why do I need to know? Why is it so important? It’s still love.
It’s always been love.
But now he’s done. He doesn’t want it anymore. He doesn’t feel it anymore.
I sit up. I can’t even feel my body. I can most certainly not see it, so is it even there? I don’t know.
I send signals to my hands to rummage through my bags at my feet – hoping that they do. I want to find it. I want to find that piece of cloth. That stuffed piece of furry cloth.
My right hand feels the soft fur brush against it and sends a signal to my brain. It registers.
I grab it and crawl out of my bunk. I then fumble my way across the tiny, narrow hallway and find Frank’s curtain.
I rip it open. I hope he notices me standing there.
I don’t talk. I don’t glare. I don’t do anything but throw the stuffed hamster into his bunk. He gave it to me when I found out that taking care of a real one was too much work – especially on tour.
If he doesn’t want me to touch his stuff, then I guess he’s gonna want that thing back.
I draw his curtain shut and walk away – leading my own way through the bus. I walk down the stairs and open the door. When my shoes hit the dirt – small pebbles crunching underneath my rubber-soled shoes – I take a deep breath of the fresh air.
It’s dark. I can taste the slight moist in the air – signifying the obvious for those who can see.
I close the door behind me.
I take a few deep breaths. The air seems to expand my lungs and my chest. As the slight moist of the air hits my face, it feels like being licked in the face – by a loved one.
I sigh deeply.
I let my fingers run over the cooled metal of the door – dirt scratching lightly against my fingertips.
And then I let go.
I let go of the bus door and walk. My steps are slow and cautious, but at the same time firm and determined.
I walk away.