The Blind Boy

20.

He's pissed.

Rory doesn't know who did it, but someone scratched all the braille off of the classroom signs. 

He doesn't know if it had been done in a bout of boredom, if it had been done maliciously, or even done unconsciously. 

Peter has ADHD, and he had witnessed him – on multiple occasions, when he had sight – pull leaves from their front shroom, and then have no memory of ever doing so.

Either way, it makes getting to class go from an anxiety-inducing task, to practically insurmountable. He suddenly can't breathe, and his meds are somehow doing nothing today, so he leaves. 

"Rory Denvers?" he thinks he hears one of the teachers call, reprimanding and stern, but he ignores the voice in favor of finding the front exit. Thankfully, with how much he knows about the building, it isn't terribly difficult to find. 

He's too wired today, too anxious, too angry, and is past the point of caring. 

He's already flunking most of his classes anyway, with the exception of English. 

That's a strange aftereffect of becoming blind. 

Before he lost his sight, he could've cared less about fiction. About stories. About analyzing them. Now? Now he drowns in them, longs to become embedded in the pages themselves. He loves listening to them, reading them himself with braille, and even considers writing some. 

Rory doesn't know if it's escapism or genuine passion, but aside from a soft-spoken girl with a UK accent, it keeps him going. Where before the money would've gone into his athletic equipment, into his travel team, it now goes into expensive braille books. 

His father hates this change. 

His perfect, athletic son reduced to fanciful stories, like a child. Rory overheard him say something like that to his mother earlier in the year. In less words, and more bluntly, but it had stung all the same. 

Rory misses his father with all of his heart, but he thinks for the first time ever, he's truly seeing his father for who he is. 

The older man is not a good person, and nothing changed - his father simply never has been. 

Rory had not been a good person, either. Louis is a prime example of that. Even Peter, known for making people laugh, known for his good nature, had not necessarily been good. Sure, he never actively bullied anyone, but he still sat in the corner and watched. He still laughed. 

And Rory? Rory had been an active participant. The ringleader. His father's son. 

Another aftereffect to becoming blind. Even though he can't technically see anyone anymore, even though he can no longer make out their features, it feels like he's seeing the clearest he ever has. 

The fresh air feels nice on his clammy skin. 

Then with a trembling voice, "Call mom."  

_____________________

Rory's fingers curl around the tape, picking at it. It becomes customary for his mother to tape around all of the furniture, so the cleaning crew knows where to put everything back. He appreciates that much, at least. It hurts to slam into furniture and walls. Hurts his pride even more. 

Rory thinks that the tape is blue, but he's beginning to forget colors. Memories of a life with sight are growing ever more distant. His Ophthalmologist had told him this was all normal and okay. A-okay, is the word he often uses. We're all a-okay here, Rory.