These Eyes Are Blind

Frank’s got a different opinion of the world, as do most people. He’s got a different way of thinking about things. A different way of hearing things. A different way of seeing things.

He’s got a different vantage point to think about things though, and this is not always a good thing, and for most people it’s a highly inconvenient thing. No one really understands, and they’re all a bit patronizing.

“Do you need help with the door?”

“Can you find your way by yourself?”

“Do you want help with that?”

And all the other phrases most people hear when they arrive at new places, but then there’s Frank who hears those very things several dozen times a day. He’s not a child, even though you may treat him that way. He’s been doing this for a while, he doesn’t need your help, so go away or he will hit you with a cane. He can and he will.

There are a lot of simple tasks he can’t do, but he will try his best on his own thank you very much.

Frank sees a lot of things differently. Especially because he can’t see anything.

He does not like the term blind, and is more in favor of the term ‘visually fucked,’ because it’s so much more fun to say.

For all his life, Frank has been the wildcard. He’s the wildcard who’s also a bit of an asshole. It gets tedious being the sympathy case every second of your life, so he’s just grown into this arrogant bravado, which really doesn’t suit your average blind kid. Therein lies the loophole though, because Frank is not your average blind kid.

He’s constantly being an annoying little sot who pretends they’re going to walk into traffic. He also tends to freak people out when handling sharp objects. He’s in control of the situation whenever he’s showing off like this, but people think he’s that helpless. Frank isn’t an idiot. He knows where the cars are, and he knows not to chop his own fingers off with a knife. He’s not an idiot, he just can’t see. There’s a difference.

Frank likes to freak people out though. He likes to hear them gasp long and hard as the midget kid almost gets hit by a truck. The truck won’t hit him. If anything, Frank has a better sense of where the truck is than most people. He hears it, and hearing it helps him place it.

Hearing is definitely the most underrated of all the senses. Everyone talks to him about how sad it is that he can’t see, but not to hear would be not to live. There’s really nothing more immersive than an earful of music when you can’t see the world around you. Frank’s a pessimist, he has to be, given that he’s been blind for ten years, but one thing he’s sure of is that music is magic. Nothing good comes of anything you see, but music, sounds, voices, that’s what Frank values most when he can’t value the aesthetic.

Frank will go out to clubs sometimes just to hear the music, and it makes him feel even more alive than he already does. He listens to the way the beat changes and drops. The way it weaves from one speaker to the other, the way the singer forces their voice out against the music. He loves it all and truly he would love to be the one up there making hearts swoon.

He used to play guitar before he became blind, and he was pretty good for how old he was, and just in general. He still plays but not as much. Playing guitar is almost like being blind. You close your eyes and just let your fingers find their way around the instrument. That's what Frank always did, and that's why he's not half bad. He doesn't think he should do it anywhere other than his house though, the world doesn’t want or care about hearing him. No matter how hard he tries, he’s never going to be as good as a guy who can see what he’s doing.

Frank doesn't have any friends. Not many people tend to want to put up with the asshole blind kid. He likes it that way though. He’s gotten into the habit of accepting that his friends will find him, and not the other way around. It's just that simple. It'll flow the same way it does with his instrument. A few kinks here and there, but not too shabby.

Frank doesn't have a significant other either, for the same reason he doesn’t have friends. He’s always wondered how it'd be if he found that one person who could remain by his side no matter what. Frank never goes in search of that person though. He doesn't need anyone by his side. His hand works perfectly fine. He is content with being alone for the rest of his life, it’s a reality he accepted a long time ago, but that doesn't mean he doesn't think about being with someone else.

The thing with that though is that Frank knows he'd want to see them. He knows he'd want to know how they look, and he’d never stop longing for it. Sure he could trace their face with his fingers, and try to feel them, out but he knows that won't be enough at the end of the day. Frank’s been told he’s a good looking guy, and he’d sure as hell like to see the progress he’s made since he saw himself last, but that doesn’t mean as much to him as what other people look like. His face isn’t the most interesting thing to him, he would just want to know what the person he's with would look like, so that he could compliment them. Tell them they’re having a great hair day, or congratulate them for having no acne. He can’t do that though.

No one wants to date the cripple. Frank doesn’t think of it as a handicap. He used to, but now he just thinks of it as who he is. He thinks it’s inconvenient, but he’s no less human than someone with 20/20 vision. He can’t solve a Rubik’s cube, but that isn’t a good judge of one’s worth in the first place.

Frank’s face is pushed against the window of the car seat, trying to picture what a person looks like, but it’s not very easy. It’s hard to picture ever being in a relationship when he can’t even picture what they might look like. He knows what a face looks like and a body, because he has both of those things, but it’s hard to remember details about a face. Mainly what eyes look like, and what color a mouth is, or anything else to do with color for that matter. There are some colors he’s lost entirely. Black is something he’s fairly familiar with. White is pretty easy too. He can see the most minimal of some colors. Nothing pale though, those are lost to him. Pastels are essentially nonexistent. It’s been a while, so he’s forgotten a lot of things about sight. If there’s one thing he wishes he could’ve held on to, it’s colors.

Frank’s sight isn’t what one would call complete darkness. He’s still blind, but he can see the changes in light. Sometimes he can see a person’s form if he’s in a really bright room, because it casts a silhouette in the light that passes through to his eyes. Mostly it’s just big blurry blobs, and the only thing that he’s reliably able to see is when the sun is up, because that makes his vision a bright white, while darkness makes his vision a dark black. It’s not very useful, but it shows hope. His brain still does receive signals from his eyes, which is the best news he has for the future.

Frank’s not the best at being hopeful, and he tells himself to push the hope away most of the time, but still, part of him thinks maybe, just maybe, he’ll see again. He’d love that. To see again would be nice. That’s wishful thinking though, and he tries not to do that.

The window against his cheek is cold, and he’s mostly only pressed against it for the way it feels. He’s not sure what time it is, because he doesn’t particularly care. He’s been trying to not fall asleep in the car for several hours. His mom doesn’t like the music Frank’s into, so they’ve been listening to a wide array of audiobooks, none of which Frank picked out. He’s getting really tired of old winded British men talking about boring upper-class white men with no character appeal whatsoever.

“Are we there yet?” Frank asks.

“That would be the thirtieth time you’ve asked that,” his mom says.

“Are we there yet? That makes thirty one.”

“No we are not there yet,” she replies.

“Bummer. I can’t wait to see the new house,” he says monotonously.

“That wasn’t funny,” she says.

“You need to learn to take a joke,” Frank snorts.

“You really need to work on your manners,” his mother says, and Frank would roll his eyes, but he’s not very good at it. He’s got a bit of control over his pupils, but not much.

“So-”

“If you ask me whether we’re there yet one more time, I will turn this car around,” she says.

“Are we there yet?” Frank asks. As promised, the car swerves around considerably, throwing Frank against the window even more. He’s not bothered by it, but he starts giggling at the momentum of the car.

Frank scoffs when he realizes what’s happened and says, “Oh nice. Try to trick the blind kid, isn’t that polite of you? I can’t see, I’ll give you that, but I know the difference between a 180 and a 360 degree turn.”

“I told you I’d turn the car around. I never said how much I’d turn the car around.”

“Truth by ambiguity. Nice. I like it. Keep up the good work,” Frank says giving a thumbs up, and then letting his head fall back against the window. He’s really getting bored of this.

“When will we be there then?” Frank asks, probably about ten minutes later, though it feels like it’s been hours.

“Not too long now.”

Frank huffs and slouches down in his seat a little further. Driving is tedious, and he doesn’t get to waste his time looking out the window, because he wouldn’t really see all that much.

Frank sighs for what has to be the thousandth time on the car ride, and slouches a little in his seat. He knows he's bugged his mom enough but he can't help but to ask her again.

"Mom, are we there yet?"

She sighs angrily and he knows that that’s his cue to be quiet, but it wouldn't be Frank if he actually took heed to it.

"I'm just really tired of being bored. What you've picked to play isn't necessarily a day at Disneyland, and I can't enjoy the scenery on the way, so I'd much rather it be over."

"You are a piece of work, you know that?"

"Don't tell me I'm driving my own mom away now."

Frank's mother detects the underlying sadness in that statement. She sighs again, but sadly this time.

"Frankie, no matter how many smart remarks come out of your mouth or how many times you try to drive me crazy, I'm not going anywhere. I am your mother and I always will be."

Frank nods and she smiles at him unbeknownst to him.

"Guess what Frankie..."

"We're here?"

Frank's mother laughed and turned into the driveway.

"Yes son, we're here."

“Hallelujah,” Frank says, and he puts his hand on the door handle, “can I open the door?”

He has to ask whether he can, because he once knocked over a mailbox when he didn’t know it was there. He also dented the door when he swung it out too far and it hit a wall.

“The driveway is clear,” she replies, “there’s some grass about a foot from where you are. Careful, there’s a little bit of an angle.”

Frank nods, and pushes the door open carefully. He scrambles around the glove compartment for where he left his cane. It collapses to be about a fourth of its size, and Frank finds it. Before stepping out of the car he puts it together to its full length. He pulls himself out of the car, careful not to hit his head on the roof. A moment later he plants his feet firmly when he’s sure he knows what the slope of the ground is like.

“Left or right?” Frank asks, because he doesn’t know which way the house is supposed to be.

“On your left,” his mom calls back.

Frank turns his head in that direction, and steps away from the door so that he can close it. The driveway feels like it hasn’t been repaved recently, because Frank’s fairly sure there’s some cracks in the tarmac.

“Frankie, do you need me to walk you around the house?”

“I’ll do it myself,” Frank says.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. There’s no stairs right?” Frank asks for what has to be the millionth time. Frank hates stairs. With a burning passion he hates stairs. All stairs are different heights, and there’s always a different number of steps. One extra step can make his life really difficult. A centimeter height difference can trip him up as well. Stairs were designed by Satan himself, Frank’s sure of it.

“There’s no stairs, as I’ve said a thousand times,” his mother replies. Frank breathes out lightly, because he still isn’t quite sure. There could still be some stairs in that house that weren’t listed on the real-estate information. Stairs are one of the biggest reasons for why they moved house in the first place. That, and apparently raising a blind kid in a busy city was ‘too dangerous’ and Frank’s already ‘nearly walking into traffic every other day.’ He didn’t really complain, he had no attachment to the old house, or the old school, or the old town. He was actually quite glad to rid himself of the people in that town.

“If there are stairs I’ll just be lying on the floor when you come in,” Frank says. He can tell that his mom is trying to get some of the boxes and what not out of the car. One of the pluses to not having a lot of money is that they also don’t have a lot of stuff. Most of it they shipped a few weeks ago and is waiting in the entryway. That’ll be a fun obstacle.

“I don’t have a key,” Frank says, when he reaches what he believes to be the top of the driveway. It is angled upward a little bit, but it’s not very steep. Steep enough that a ball would roll down it, but not very fast.

“Oh sorry,” she says, and a second later he feels a small piece of cool metal in his hand.

“Thanks,” Frank says, and then makes his way back up the driveway.

“There’s a bend in the way there to your right, Frank. Then the door is right in front of you,” his mother says.

“Got it,” Frank says, and he lets his cane clear the path in front of him. He feels when the cane hits grass instead of sidewalk, and turns at this. As he was directed, the door is right there.

“Hey mom, I hope you know that I know you’re right behind me,” Frank says, “and I don’t appreciate the fact that you think I’m not smart enough to realize you’re there.”

“Sorry sorry. Just worried,” she says.

“Well I’m fine, as long as there really aren’t any stairs.”

“I’ve told you a million times!”

“Then we shouldn’t have any problems,” Frank replies. He feels over the ridges of the key in his hand, and finds the right way to hold it. He then reaches out for the door handle, and feels the cold metal in his hand a second later. It takes him a few shots to get it right, but he does finally turn the knob, and leaves the key in the lock.

Frank steps into the house and feels out in front of him for something that might trip him. There’s hardwood flooring which is not Frank’s personal preference, but he continues on. He likes carpet best, because it’s softer and he’s less likely to slip on it. The first few feet in front of him seem to be safe so he walks further into the room until he hits a wall. He walks along the length of the wall until he senses that the floor changes to something more like tile. Frank guesses that this is the kitchen, and walks in a little further. The sound his cane makes when it hits what is probably the oven tells him that he was right about what room this was.

“Frank?” his mother asks, and Frank answers back.

“Your room should be through the kitchen, second door on your right. The first door is a bathroom. There’s only one door on the left side of that hall, and it’s a spare room,” she says.

“They’re all in one hall?” Frank asks, and she makes an affirmative sound, “Where’s your room?”

“Mine is off of the living room. The living room is where you entered from next to the front door.”

“I figured,” Frank says and he steps forward carefully to find the room that’s apparently his.

“Now if you want, I can take the spare room and use the master as the extra, if you want me to be closer,” she says.

“No!” Frank responds firmly. She probably thinks he still wants someone there to help him walk down the hall or something, when he really doesn’t. He wants to be treated like he’s actually an eighteen year old boy and not an idiot with a stick.

Frank finds the room, and once inside he locates where the closet is, and finds a window on the wall. There’s a bed pressed against a corner of the wall, because the house is partially furnished. As far as he can tell, the bed is the only thing in this room. The closet is small, but he doesn’t have a lot of clothes. Mostly they’re just neutral colors so that he doesn’t mismatch things often.

He hears his mom step into the room behind him, and he turns in the direction that he’s fairly sure she’s in.

“What do you think?” she asks. He hears her turn on a light switch in the room, but Frank hadn’t realized it was dark in the first place. The difference in lighting isn’t prominent enough to have made it past his eyes.

“I don’t like the paint color,” Frank says.

His mother sighs long and hard. He had to do it though. If he hadn’t made a sarcastic remark then he is not Frank, but actually some sort of shape shifter and he should be exterminated on the spot.

“Really though?”

“It’s small,” he says, “but hey, no steps!”

“I’m glad you’re so easily pleased,” she says.

“That’s as close as you’re going to get to a compliment about the house,” Frank says, and he walks over to where he’d felt the bed was a minute ago. He tests out how tall it is so that he can remember that for future reference.

“Well make yourself at home, because this is it,” she says.

“Dandy,” Frank responds, and he hears her leave the room.

Frank thinks to himself that he would love to know what color the walls actually are. He was too busy being cynical to actually ask. He should’ve asked. He doesn’t want to show that he’s curious though.

Frank sits down on the bed and looks around, well not actually look, but you get the point. He sighs and closes up his cane. He isn't planning on leaving his room anytime soon. He listens to his mom dropping boxes in the distance and smiles sadly. He wishes he could help her and not have it turn into a disaster.

Frank wishes he could see again. He wishes that he could put things up and sit back and look at it satisfied, but he can't. Frank had hopes of seeing again, and maybe he still does somewhere in the back of his mind, but he isn't banking on it. He wonders what it would be like seeing again for the first time though.

Frank always thought about having a boyfriend and magically seeing again. It's no secret that Frank likes boys more than girls so it's not actually a shock that he thinks of having a boyfriend. He knows no one could ever love him though. He can't see, so what's the point in being with him. He wouldn't be able to cook much, clean, or do anything that he needs his eyes for.

Frank always imagined how arguments would work too. Like if his boyfriend would get upset and say the wrong things to him. Something along the lines of 'but you're too stupid to see that,' and then they would realize too late what they said. Frank wouldn't be up to that. Frank supposes he really is okay with being alone for the rest of his life. It’ll hurt less in the long run.

Frank takes off his vans and moves his body onto the bed comfortably. He takes off his sunglasses and sits them beside him on the bed. He looks around trying to grasp the color of the room, and sighs when he barely comes up with anything. It could be a combination of colors, or ugly wallpaper for that matter. Maybe an assortment of pastels that look white with his poor sense of color. He gives up and closes his eyes, because it’ll only just upset him. Before Frank knows it, he’s slipped into dreamland.