The Blind Boy

15.

The sound of rain has always been his favorite, blind or not. 

Rory relaxes outside the windowsill, reading a new fantasy novel, unable to focus. He has friends. He made friends. The boy he bullied relentlessly doesn't seem to hate him. The girl he adores beyond all measure doesn't hate him. In fact, she seems to genuinely enjoy his company. He can leave the house without collapsing in on himself like a dying star, even if it takes him a few drinks and a valium to do it. Doctor Tu is beyond thrilled with his progress, his mother has stopped anxiously puttering about, and even his father (his father! His gruff, emotionally distant father) seems happy with the changes that have marked him. 

He should be happy. 

So why aren't I? 

He still feels like a stain, an abscess of worthlessness and nothing. He closes his book, curling his knees into his chest, resting his chin atop it. "I'm a better person now," he reasons with himself, thinking of the blonde boy that used to cry because of him. And they all -- all of his old friends, he means -- they thought that pain was funny, that it was just another weakness to exploit. 

"If there's any meaning behind all this, that ought to be one of them." 

Rory had thought it was funny back then, but now he knows. He knows what it's like to be alone, to have everyone whispering about you, to have people leave, to feel like nothing will be okay again. At least he got the chance to make that right. No, not right. At least he got the chance to start to make things right. 

But there's still an endless field of gray in his vision, of nothingness. He aggressively blinks away tears that well up, hoping to extinguish them before they dare to fall. 

Max nudges him with the wetness of his snout, curling underneath him. He scratches the top of his head, willing the thoughts to go away. Why does he have to make this so difficult? Why can't he -- why can't he just accept this? Be content with it? Perhaps not happy with it, maybe never happy again, but okay with it. Not feeling like sleeping is a better alternative to being awake. Not feeling like -- well, like death is a better alternative to a sightless life.

"It's just a transitionary process," he tells Max hoarsely. "I'm fine. I'll be okay one day." 

If he tells himself enough, maybe he'll start to believe it. 

At least he's found some sense of purpose now. And Ash had granted him that -- the chance to do better, the chance to lift up the people around him. He thinks back to the waver in her voice, the bruise donning her face, and his stomach twists. 

Maybe he can repay her in kind. He can repay everyone who has helped him, everyone who he's ever hurt -- 

And then maybe he'll find the will to stay. To endure it. 

His fingers wind around his scar. 

Or perhaps he'll find the closure to finally leave. 

He hears his sister approaching from behind him, walking up the stairs to the window seat. "Rory?" she calls out. "Okay? You look sad." 

He forces a smile. 

"Okay," he lies, closing his book and setting it to the side. "I'm okay." 

The rain seems louder now that he's blind; strange how hard it rains now.