The Blind Boy

13.

Peter is making him do this. Thinks it's a good idea. 

Rory loves his cousin, he does, but he can be obtuse, a little forceful - especially about Rory's withdrawal from everyone and everything. As if he's avoiding people to be difficult. 

He sometimes thinks Peter is content to pretend things were the same way as before, that he's the same way as before. It's unbearable to endure, all this pretending.  As if his own pretending isn't enough.

Rory shoves his phone into his pocket, but resigns himself to his fate. It's better than lounging about all day, wallowing alone in his room. It's a challenge, makes his stomach curl in sheer anxiety, but it's something. 

Besides, he's keen to avoid his parents today. He can't stand to be alone with them in a room anymore, a feeling that is likely mutual. 

Speaking of his parents, Rory hears the rustling of newspaper as he draws closer to the drawing room, the clearing of a throat that's suffered through one too many cigarettes. The familiar scent of leather and pine, the smell of aftershave that went out of style generations ago. That's how he knows he's found his father's study. 

When Rory first went blind, his mother had coddled him. His every moment was directed by her, but the doctors and his father quickly put a stop to that, told her that he 'needed to figure things out on his own. Self sufficiency is key.' And he is. Self sufficient, he means. Well, at least he hopes he is. At the very least he maintains the persona of independence.

You know, independence. Going to school on his own. Having a panic attack going anywhere else. He wrinkles his nose wryly at the thought.  

Anyway, while his mother cried and micromanaged and popped valium, his father - who he used to be close to - distanced himself from the situation entirely, putting all the emotional regulation on doctor Tu. Sometimes Rory wants to scream at him until he goes blue in the face, make him notice his sightless eyes, but knows that he can't. He could, he supposes, but what purpose would it serve? 

Another breakdown, his mother would cry, and away to the psych ward with unfamiliar rooms and noises he would go.  

His father wouldn't be deterred by that. He's unmoving like a mountain. Rory's screams would like be a gentle wind blowing against Mount Everest. Have you always been so cold? Detached?

"Rory, what do you need?" 

Rory's left hand finds the smooth exterior of the wood. The large doors are open. His fingers skim against the surface until he knows he's lingering on the threshold, if not across it altogether. Even if he can't see his father, he knows he avoids Rory's gaze. He just knows. 

Like he can't bear to look at him anymore.  

"I'm heading over to Peter's," Rory states. "For the annual Halloween party. Y'know." 

The flip of a page. The faint scent of some acquired whiskey, like burnt apples. Have you always drank this much? Is this my fault? "Sure that's a good idea?" 

It's a question, but the tone is dismissive. It screams, get on with it.  

He manages to force a grin. Rory likes to think that if he acts normal enough, the icy distance between them will melt. Things will go back to the way they were. "I think I'm ready. Peter will help me out, and I can always come back home if it's too much." He pauses. The hesitation lingers. "It'll be nice to see the team again." Figurately speaking, anyway.

His father's gruff voice finally holds a tone of interest. "Oh, well. Do me a favor and see how McKinley's doing - best pitcher we had." 

"Will do." Rory fiddles with his hands, nails scraping against the curve of his thumb. "Anyway..."