Unspoken

I feel naked. I don’t know where anything is in the room. I can’t see. I’m thankful for everything he does. I can’t see. That will never change. Why did it have to happen to me? Why not to someone else? But then that person would have to deal with what I’m going through. He is having those thoughts.

The room is dark. The only light is coming from the moonlight outside. Others might have closed the blinds so that no one could see what is going on, but not him. He didn’t realize they were opened nor how old the house really is. The paint is peeling. The bathroom needs to be restored. The door needs to be fixed, so it can reclaim its status. 

He walked to the bathroom. He felt the need to shower. He had an urge to feel. It happened often. It was the only thing he was left with. His steps were small, his hands stretched outwards making sure there wasn’t anything, wanting to touch the wall. He felt the side of the door to which he clutched to. It felt smooth. Unknown to him, even though it was smooth it was a sickly gray color. To those with eyes, it would make them sickly to see it. He let his hand guide him further into the bathroom. He ran his hands over the edge of bathtub feeling how it’s peeling like he is. He thinks. His hands find the faucets and turn each of them on. He strips himself of his remaining clothes. He tentatively sits on the edge of the bathtub and places his feet inside. 

Water is colorless. Water goes through. Water can be hot. Water can be cold. Water can be in between, he thinks as he feels the water underneath him, beside him, on him seeping through him, being molded to him. He remembers how he used to play with his rubber duck as a child.  That is all he can feel from water. He gets out and repeats his walk back to the room without drying himself. He likes feeling the water dry on his skin. 

He doesn’t see him standing on the doorway. The door doesn’t close. He doesn’t see how longingly he stares at him. He makes his way to the bed. He lies down. The mattress protests. It’s an old mattress.

He makes himself known by knocking on the broken door. He just raises his hand in acknowledgement. He makes his way to the bed trying to keep his gaze on his face. He doesn’t want to frighten him, but it’s difficult to restrain himself. He always comes at nighttime. He still treats him with such adoration. He wants him to think of him as his rock. He comes to a stop at his bedside.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” He asks.

His hand hovers over his cheek. He yearns to caress his cheek. 

“Yes.” He barely whispers.

The stories are descriptions. He wants him describing things. He lost his ability to see many things, but not what he knows. Not his feelings. 

He wants him to make a move, but he never does. He can feel his body heat. He felt the invisible caress, but he thinks he imagined it all. He closes his eyes. 

He stares at him each night. Every night when he thinks he has fallen asleep, a few minutes before he goes back to his bedroom. He closes his eyes. He wishes he would be brave enough to make a move, but he is not. 

At a whisper, he opens his eyes and stares at him, but he thinks it is his imagination. He is sleeping. He gets up and walks to his room. He wishes he was brave enough. He is living with him. He chose him over everyone else. That should count tenfold.