Blinded

I’m surprised when I wake up. I actually fell asleep. And now I immediately smell coffee. It invades my nostrils and keeps traveling up to my brain as I crawl out of my bunk and guide my way into the kitchenette. I find the counter and wait for a few seconds for someone to say something.
But no one does.

“Hello?” I ask – my voice low, because it would seem stupid to talk to an empty room.
But no one answers.
“Anyone here?” I ask louder.
No one answers.
Okay, I need coffee. So, yeah. But come on, I’ve been pouring my own coffee for years! I don’t think I’ve ever done it with my eyes closed, but I sure have been tempted to. The annoying thing is I’m not even as tired as I usually am when I wake up in the morning. How typical.
I find the coffee pot. I reach up in front of my head and find the handle to the cabinet. I open it and slowly and carefully search for a mug. I find one and place it on the table before I close the cabinet. I make sure the bottom of the mug isn’t up, before I find the coffee pot again and pull it out.
I know blind people usually stick a finger in their glass to figure out how much they’ve poured, but what do they do when it’s steaming hot coffee?
I’m just gonna pour a little bit.
I use my fingers to guide the coffee spout to the edge of the mug, and I tilt the coffee pot when I hear the sound of glass against porcelain.
I pour a little bit and stop. I put the pot back and keep a hand wrapped around the mug. Before I let go of the coffee pot, I realize I can feel the heat of the coffee through the mug. I slowly let one finger glide up the porcelain, and I can clearly feel where the hot coffee stops and cold air begins.
Discovering this new method, I take the tip of the coffee pot back to touch the porcelain of the mug and start pouring again. I pour slowly, as I focus on feeling when the heat will hit my finger.
It doesn’t. Well, it does, but not in the way I expected.
I pull my hand away from the mug when I feel the burn. I also pull the coffee pot away from the mug, which causes the coffee to splash over the rim and onto my other hand.
Both of my hands are hurting like fucking hell, but I focus on putting the coffee pot safely back on the counter, before I turn around to find the opposite counter. When I do, I quickly reach for the tap, which I luckily find very easily.
I put my hands under the running water and wince as it pours down over my sore, burning hands.

“Fucking shit!” I yell. As loud as I can. Someone must still be here. And awake! Someone made the coffee and just left? You can’t just leave a fucking blind guy alone with the smell and presence of his greatest, fucking, steaming hot desire!
“Fucking motherfuckers!” This time my voice is more of a mutter, but it can still clearly be heard.
I keep my hands under water. I lean my hip against the counter. I actually have to pee, but yeah. Hands! Burning! Au! Motherfuckers leaving steaming hot coffee for a blind guy to pour all over himself! Thank you! Assfaces…

“Gerard, are you okay?” Frank asks tiredly from behind me. I can practically hear him rub the sleep out of his eyes, so I can’t really blame him for brewing the coffee – and then leaving it! Unattended! Fuck! I’m boiling on the inside!
“What happened?” He sounds like he’s on the brink of hysterics.
“Oh my… Fuck!” I suddenly feel his hand on my shoulder.
And then, out of fucking nowhere, I start bawling like a fucking baby. It hurts! Sure! But crying? And no, not just crying – fucking bawling!
“It’s okay, Gee. Just keep soaking them. I’m gonna go get a doctor.” He sounds slightly calmer, but I can still here the hysterics in his voice. I wish I could see him.
I hear him run away – his small feet trample over the carpeted floor. I wish I could see it. I wish I could see my hands. See what a mess I’d made behind me. See how much I’m crying. See how soaked my sleeve is by now from wiping my tears away. I wanna see! I can’t see! I need to see!