These Eyes Are Blind

Gerard had asked him something weird today. It wasn’t really rude in the context, but it was weird in the feeling that it left Frank with.

All he did was ask if Frank had ever kissed anyone. Frank knew he was fishing, he really did, but he took the bait anyway. Frank said no. He’s never kissed anyone, and that’s the truth.

When would he have found the time to have kissed someone? No one wanted to talk to him after the incident, and he was only eight back then. Frank’s never had the time, nor the person, and sometimes that sinks in to make him feel like crap, but most of the time he just accepts it.

Except, after a while of this life, he’s gotten sick and tired of just accepting things.

Frank had imagined, growing up, that he’d have his first kiss when he was like fifteen. Sixteen maybe. He was hoping for fourteen, because that’d be kind of cool. He was young enough to think it’d be with a girl, someone nice. Sweet. That’s what he’d pictured. He’d pictured some Disney kiss where all that really touched were lips. That’s what he’d been planning.

What he didn’t plan on was the reality that his first kiss would probably be with a guy. What he didn’t plan on was that his first kiss wasn’t going to be anywhere near the age of fifteen. What he didn’t plan on was the fact that he’d have no idea what the person he was kissing would look like. What he didn’t plan on was maybe wanting to kiss Gerard of all people.

When Frank was that young, he couldn’t even fathom what it was like to be blind. That was just something that he couldn’t wrap his head around in his wildest, most demented dreams. He was eight for god’s sake, no eight year old should have to imagine what it’s like for you to have the inability to see. Eight year olds are too busy trading Pokémon cards, and telling stupid jokes with their friends. An eight year old just hasn’t lived enough to be able to consider what things might be like in the future.

Frank didn’t think it was possible for him, him of all people, to ever have a disability. He could never get sick, after all, eight year olds think themselves indestructible. That was how he saw the world. And then, all of a sudden, he couldn’t see the world at all.

It was like everything just sort of stopped. The world that was once endless, and remarkable, became small, enclosed, ugly, and bland. Everything that once held color turned to black. It was all just black. The world stopped spinning, the birds stopped singing, everything just stopped.

Frank had spent the first month or so feeling sorry for himself. He started crying, and he started to shut the world away. It felt like he was being suffocated. Everything that he dreamed about, everything he wanted to be or wanted to do with his future was gone. It was like every door was shut and all it took was one small thing. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then came the resentment. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t that guy have mugged someone else, someone who actually had money? Why couldn’t Frank have just been allowed to walk free when he couldn’t pay up? Why couldn’t he have saved some of his cash that he’d spent on a meaningless pack of gum a few hours earlier? Would that have changed anything? He hadn’t been alone, Frank had a ‘friend’ with him, why couldn’t it have been him that was blinded? Most of all, what did Frank do to deserve this?

That resentment never went away. It never faded, even though Frank tries to pretend it did. The sadness from before never went away either. It still hurt him, still hurts him, every goddamn day of his goddamn life.

He was eight years old. He should’ve been worrying about learning the fifty states, or about that picture frame he’d broken and hidden from his mother under the couch. He shouldn’t have been memorizing a whole new language. He shouldn’t have been learning how to walk around. He was so young, he shouldn’t have needed to have everything taken away from him, but it was.

It’s not fair, and Frank thinks about that every second of his life. You’d think, after ten years, that eventually it might become routine by now. You’d think he’d be used to it, and maybe, if only for a few seconds, that it might slip his mind that he’s blind. Just for a fleeting moment, the smallest in the world. Maybe he’d forget. Never has he had the chance to forget though. Every single second of every single day he echoes the exact same words in his mind on repeat. ‘I’m blind.’ Over and over and over again, he hears those words. ‘I’m blind. I’m blind. I’m blind.’

No one really understands either. How could they? No one else was there, no one else has to go through the hell of being inferior every day. After a while, that resentment that he’d felt back then, became pure fury. Resentment turned to rage, and if people think teenagers are angst ridden than it was Frank who wrote the book. He doesn’t try to be a smartass, and most of the time, he can get away with convincing people that he really does just enjoy being a cynic, but that’s not the truth, and Frank knows that. He really is just miserable.

He really is just full of untamed and sheer helplessness that sometimes it makes him want to scream. Makes him want to punch everything, ruin everything. Every little thing around him becomes so dislikeable, and he detests it. Everything. Frank just has to grit his teeth and act like nothing’s wrong. He has to make his jokes, get picked on, feel the eyes of people pitying him everywhere he goes, and he can’t say how he really feels, because there are literally no words. There is no sequence of syllables he could possibly create that would ever be able to get across to anyone what it feels like.

It is hell.

Frank lives hell every day, and no one understands. People overlook how much pain he is in, daily, let it slip their mind completely that Frank is missing something so vital. No one could possibly get what it means.

It’s so stupid how much torture it is on Frank, because, he’s missing one thing. He’s missing one tiny thing. Just this one little miniscule thing that you wouldn’t even notice if it were on a map. It’s just this one little sense. There’s so many things about a human, that sight is so small and minimal comparatively. It’s such a small thing to let ruin your life, but not having it, that’s huge. Sight is a million times bigger when you don’t have it. It’s this huge unreachable, tantalizing thing. It’s so close, but so far away, and you can reach your hand out, but it’s not there.

It’s such a small thing, and it’s ruined Frank’s whole life. There’s no reason for it to be this big of a deal when you think about it in your head, but when you live it every day, it’s like tying a thousand pound weight to each shoulder. It’s like a Sisyphean hand around his throat, pulling him away from ever being able to do anything.

All that happened was that Frank hit his head. People hit their heads every day. Little kids fall in the park, people slam into low framed doors. Hell, some people think it’s sexy to hit their head against a headboard. All that happened to Frank was that he hit his head on a sidewalk, once, maybe twice. That’s all.

And now every staircase is an Everest. Every shoelace is a Gordian knot.

Everything was ruined by one little bump on the head. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a little bump, but it was small. He could’ve just had a concussion, or a headache. Even a coma would’ve been better than this, but no. No, Frank’s life was completely torn apart.

Now he's forced to act as if everything's fine. He has to pretend it doesn't matter that he can't see to prevent people from feeling bad for him. He doesn't want to be pitied or to be treated differently. Or does he?

Maybe Frank does secretly want someone to look at him and say 'I know you're not okay.' Maybe he wants someone to care enough to break him down just once. Make him confess everything and maybe, just maybe, that'll be what makes him feel just a smidge bit better.

Frank never asked for this. He never asked for any of this.

Now he's hours away from having to face an asshole, when all he really wishes is for this to all be one huge dream. He wishes he could wake up and find that this had been a coma after all. He's been sleeping and dreaming for years and he isn't blind. The only thing he'd be sad about is the fact that Gerard would have been a lie.

Frank rolls on his side and curls up into a ball, much like a child in a womb, and holds himself. His body is shaking with everything he's feeling at the moment. Hurt, anger, sadness, just everything. He keeps his eyes shut tightly to prevent the tears from coming that he knows are on their way. As he does that, though, he knows his attempts are futile.

His mind is running full force and he just doesn't get why this has to be him. Why does this have to be his life? Things like this are what makes Frank question there even being a God. What God would do this to someone? Who could be so cruel?

The sudden wetness on Frank's pillow lets him know that he's crying. He sits up and pushes himself back against his headboard. He curls himself up the same way he was laying, and wraps his arms around his knees. To his dismay, he starts sobbing loudly.

Frank's not sure how much time has passed or how long he's been crying, but he knows his body is shaking uncontrollably. His eyes feel puffy and his throat hurts from the harsh breathing he's been doing. He's rocking back and forth until suddenly he stops. He stares into the darkness as his body continues to tremble along with his lip. The harsh reality is like a smack to the face. He can't see shit and that's why he was crying in the first place.

He grabs his pillow and smashes his face into it. Frank holds it tightly and lets out a muffled scream. His throat burns and so do his eyes. He feels the tears start prickling at his eyes again and he doesn't try to stop them. He's way past the point of caring now. He wants to destroy something, everything, but he can’t even see to know where to begin. He screams again, and again, and again.

Frank doesn't realize he's dropped his pillow until he hears his mother’s voice coming closer to his room. The next thing he knows is his light has been turned on and his mother has her arms around him quicker than he ever thought she could move. She's rocking him and shushing him, but he doesn't want that. He pushes her away, not harsh, but enough that she gets the hint.

"Baby what is it? Tell me what's wrong."

"You have eyes!" Frank screams through his tear filled voice. "You have fucking eyes and you can't see what's wrong?"

Frank scoots forward until he's at the end of his bed and then he stands up.

"I'm nothing mom," Frank sobs and wraps his arms around himself. "I'm nothing."

"That's not true."

"It is! It's true! What can I d-do? I can't do anything. I'm n-nothing... I will never be anything. I have to w-walk around here l-like everything is fine and it's not! Nothing is fine!"

Frank's mother stands up and wraps her arms around her son. He falls limply in her arms and just cries. He cries for everything he's not. He cries for everything he knows he'll never be. He cries knowing he'll have to pretend this never happened when he's sitting at breakfast.

Right now he wishes he had never let a single tear drop. He wishes he had never made a noise. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he's having the worst dream ever and he'll wake up perfectly fine.

Except in dreams sometimes he gets to see things. He gets to see what he used to look like, and he gets to picture his old self, or maybe his mom, maybe their house. When he’s asleep he gets to pretend for a few hours that he can actually see things in real life, but then he wakes up and it’s all gone.

So why does he have to be this when everyone else gets to see? Why has he still not let it sink in that this is his fate, possibly for the rest of his life? His brain is stubborn and it never does what he wants it to do.

“Frankie, it’s alright,” his mom tries to cool him down. He’s just in one of those states where everything feels wrong and it all sucks right now. There’s really no coming down from that feeling.

“Nothing is fucking right,” Frank mopes, trying his best to even his breathing. He’s not sure what’s brought the pain on, sometimes though, it just happens. Sometimes it’s nothing, or it’s the smallest thing possible that makes him miserable. Sometimes there is no trigger to the emptiness he feels when he has that guttural realization that this is his life. His life is colorless, and it’s dark, and it’s full of pity. He can’t change it, he’s helpless to making things go back to the way they were, and it sucks.

There’s really no other word for it, because it really just does suck. There’s no feeling in the world that’s worse than the one when you realize you can’t change anything. What’s worse is that usually, when people have that feeling it’s when they realize they have no power to change something really big, but when Frank gets upset and has that feeling, it’s something tiny. It’s not the feeling that he can’t change things far reaching and broad, it’s the feeling that he can’t change something so small that it doesn’t even leave his own body. It’s the tiniest thing in the world, and he can’t change it, even though he would do anything if he could.

In a way, all this is because he’s realizing that he really can’t change. It’s all because there’s nothing he can do to stop being snarky and an asshole to the people around him, people who he cares a lot about. Who he would love to be a better person for, but he just can’t.

And it’s annoying that he cares what Gerard thinks. He does though, Frank cares. He pretends he doesn’t, but he really cares what Gerard thinks. He wants to not be the dumb blind kid who clings to Gerard like he’s a fucking life raft, but he can’t exactly stop that from happening when the thing that makes him do that is unchangeable.

Frank just wants to be normal. Just wants to make fun of his teacher’s bad toupee. Wants to make fun of the wrong shade of lipstick that the girl on his bus wears. He wants to underappreciate modern art and make fun of how simplistic it is. He wants to be able to look at himself in the mirror and point out all the flaws he sees in the reflection. He wants to be able to describe how attractive Gerard’s face is without having to put his hands all over the guy’s nose and stuff. He wants to be able to walk out of a fucking field while he’s being bullied without the use of a cane.

“Can’t do anything,” Frank says slowly, “nothing. I’m nothing.”

“You’re n-”

“You tell me what worth there is when you become blind, mother,” Frank snaps, in the tone that would usually get him sentenced to an hour long lecture about manners and respecting his mother, but right now is just not the time to question his logic. Logic is never a strong suit to people who feel like stepping in front of a car.

It’s not like Frank necessarily feels like that though. He’s not at the point where he’s tempted to walk into traffic for real, he’s more in the state of mind where, if a car just so happened to be heading his way, he just might not move out of the way. Sort of the state of mind where he doesn’t want to hurt himself, but at the same time he doesn’t really want to be alive.

Why is it that everyone always gets the worst of their melancholy on a Sunday night? It’s like your brain is making the active decision to fuck you over for the Monday to follow. His brain knows he has things to do, people to avoid, but moreover, people he’s got to make an effort to pretend he’s not dying inside in front of. Monday’s are the worst though because it’s almost like someone saw that you recovered a little bit of your remaining sanity over the weekend, and then decide it’d be funny to take back all the progress you made, making it ten times worse than it had been. It’s not funny though, it’s just miserable.

Right now all Frank can do is dread tomorrow and dread having to put up with Mikey, Brendon, and possibly Pete or Patrick making fun of him about Gerard. He knows it’s coming, and he knows he’s going to have to put up with it because it’s all in good fun, but really, in his head, he’s dreading every second that he’s going to have to spend preventing himself from stabbing them with a plastic fork.

“It’s just not fair,” Frank complains. He hasn’t stopped his mother from wrapping her arms around him yet, and he doesn’t intend to. Right now it feels okay. It just feels like she’s holding him together, stopping some inevitable explosion that’ll happen if he’s left on his own.

“I know,” she says.

“I just want to see,” Frank croaks, “just, you know, just that. That’s all. I wouldn’t underappreciate it. I’d be so grateful. I just want to see.”

“You should be able to, and I’m sorry,” she says.

“I should. I didn’t... I never... I’m not even a bad person, right? Like why couldn’t I just get this one thing back?”

His mother doesn’t reply, just shushes his him and holds him in place.

"I ask myself... all the time mom. I ask myself what could I have possibly done in my last life, if there really is one, that's so bad for me to not be able to see in this one. What did I do that was so cruel for me to deserve this treatment?" Frank takes in a shuddery breath and leans into his mother.

"Baby, some things just happen. Maybe this happened so you can never take seeing for granted when you're able to see again."

"I won't see again mom. I've given up hope on that."

"Have you really? I didn't raise a quitter. You don't give up ever. You understand me son?"

"But mom-"

"Frankie," she interrupts, "I will do everything in my power to make sure you see again. I don't care if you're 30 or 60... you will see again."

"What if you die and I'm left alone mom? I won't have anyone," Frank thinks about that a lot too.

He doesn't like to, but it's the truth. What if Frank has to do this on his own? What will he do then? Who's going to make sure he's okay and who's going to try and make it possible for him to see again?

"You'll have someone Frankie. I'm not worried about that."

"How do you know?"

"I have faith Frankie, so you should too."

"I had faith and I still ended up blind."

Frank's mother sighs and takes him over to his bed. She lays him down and leans over to kiss his forehead. He hears her walk away and panics a little. She turns off the light and his panic subsides when he hears her walking back over to him. Frank should've known she wouldn't leave him alone at a time like this.

She slides into bed and pulls him into her arms. Frank starts crying again softly and she just holds him. She wishes she could do something or say something to make him feel better. She knows one thing, though, and that's that her son will see again if it's the last thing she makes happen in life.

"I know you think things are horrible right now, and they probably are, but you'll see that things will get better. Things happen for a reason, baby. Maybe you can find out eventually why this happened to you, and you'll probably even appreciate it. I know you don't think so, but I do. We'll be okay baby, I promise."

Frank takes in a shaky breath, and asks softly, "How can you promise that mother?"

“Because I won’t give up until things get better, and you sure as hell aren’t going to give up either. You may want to, but you won’t.”

“I just wanna see,” Frank mumbles again.

“Well that’s good, because you will someday.”

“Why can’t someday be today? Or yesterday?”

She sighs, and Frank can tell that his questioning is only making her even more determined. “Because that’s the way the world is right now, but it won’t always be that way.”

"I hope you're right," Frank pauses for a second wondering if he should say what he's about to say next. He figures, since all this has happened, things can't get any worse. "Mom..."

"Yes baby?"

"It's about Gerard, and please don't bring this up tomorrow, or any other day."

"I won't, honey."

"Promise?"

"Yes. Come out with it."

"If I was to let him in... um, do you think... do you think he could love me? Do you think I'm capable of being loved?"

"You're more than capable of being loved. And if you ask me, that boy is already on the path of being head over heels for you. You have to let him in though, Frankie."

"I know, it's not easy though," Frank whispers.

"I know. You'll get there," She runs her fingers through Frank's hair soothingly. "Sleep baby. We have to get up in the morning."

"I'm dreading that."

"You and I both," Frank's mother sighs, "Just remember something for me..."

"What is it mom?" Frank asks through a yawn.

"Whenever things are at an absolute low, remember I love you."

"I know, mom. I love you too."