Labels: Daryl
penned with passion.
descriptive is never easy to write, and with chris churning out essays like a grammatizator, it is even harder. but here it is. i haven't written in a long while, so please be kind on me :) i haven't done any editing at all, this is the completed story in its raw form. enjoy. :D
a note to the reader: try to read this story with an open mind.
Blind Sight
It was a stormy night. The rain came down in sheets on the fields, the wind tore fiercely through the branches and leaves of the trees, flashes of lightning were followed in quick succession by deafening cracks of thunder. The countryside seemed to be veiled by the thick downpour that never seemed to stop. All over the country husbands and wives, sons and daughters, tossed restlessly in their beds, unable to sleep with the unsettling storm outside.
Yet at the edge of a small field, hidden by two oaks, there was a small run-down shack, and in there the old man lay in his bed, sleeping, dreaming. There was no other room in the shack but the one where the old man slept. No light hung from the ceiling, nor was there a bed lamp. The room was dark and dry, and smelled of the old books that filled the shelves. The shelves covered the walls of the room, save for the door and the small window that let in a dim shaft of light that shone upon the old man’s face. The books were matted with dust, and like almost everything else in the room, had not been touched for years. Next to the bed where the old man laid, on the bedside table, was a flask of water and a glass, and a silver locket with a picture of a lady inside it. The lady was young, beautiful and smiling. The old man never looked at the locket, but the image was fixed somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind.
The old man lay there in his sheets, on his bed, the noise outside did not bother him. His grey, unkempt hair framed his frail and weathered face. The sagging skin on his face seemed to only be held up by his small cheekbones, and with his tightly shut eyelids shadowed by saddened brows it was not hard to tell that this aged creature had experienced little or none of the pleasures in life.
A brief flash of lightning illuminated his gaunt appearance, and suddenly the old man man’s face scrunched up, like a baby when it was crying. He groaned as he writhed around his in bed. This went on for a while. Then abruptly, with a soft yell, he woke up, panting heavily.
The storm outside raged harder than ever.
He sat there for a moment, trying to remember. It was the same one he had last night. And the night before. And the night before that. In fact, he thought to himself, I’ve had that nightmare for over a year now.
Feeling thirsty, the old man reached to his bedside table and poured himself a glass of water. He sipped at his drink, thinking about the dream. It was odd, having the same dream for song now and still being frightened by it. It was brief, but so vivid. He was standing on a tall cliff that faced the sea, when the ground beneath him suddenly gave way, and he started falling, and he would wake up, panting and dazed.
The rain beat relentlessly on the window and on the zinc roof of the house. The noise was terrific.
Sitting there in the darkness of the room, the old man took another sip. He tried to remember what was the colour of the grass on this cliff. Was it green? He couldn’t remember what green looked like. Nor could he remember what any other colour did, for that matter. Except for black. And even then he couldn’t really remember what black looked like either, because black was as good as any other colour.
The old man felt an aching feeling in his heart. That feeling felt familiar. There were many things he could not remember, but he definitely remembered the last time he saw colour. It was the first time he had that aching feeling in his heart.
“Darling, take a break from the computer. Your eyes need a rest.” Said Linda concernedly from the kitchen.
“Can’t I have to finish this assignment by Thursday.” Morgan answered from the study.
“Well, the stew is ready. At least grab a bite, then continue with your work. You know what the doctor said about using the computer for too long. Your eyes need- ”
“That’s enough, Linda. Let me finish this.” Morgan said irritably.
There was silence after that, and only the soft taps of fingers on the keyboard could be heard from the room. Just then Linda heard Morgan yell.
“Darling, are you all right?” she called.
Morgan staggered out the study, his arms waving madly in front of him. “Where are you, Linda?” he cried frantically. He bumped into the piano and fell down.
Linda rushed over to him. “What’s wrong, dear? Are you all right?” she asked, worried.
“I… can’t see! I can’t see anything!” Morgan cried in panic.
From then on he never saw again. He lost his job. He lost his friends. He had learned to use a cane, to read Braille with his fingers, and to remember places by touch. Most people being left with a disabled person would have left Morgan alone to rot. But Linda did not. She loved Morgan. She stuck by him. She took care of him, encouraged him, picked him up when he fell down, and took the condescending glares and the whispers of passer-bys.
Morgan felt safe with Linda. For the first time in years of their marriage he had to learn to depend on her. But all was safe and all was good. Till fate took a cruel turn, Linda was diagnosed with leukemia and died 2 years later.
Morgan was left in the world. Alone, helpless, and afraid. With Linda gone, he had to survive by himself. It was not easy. Linda was his motivation, his strength, the only reason he could think of to live on. And now she was gone.
Distraught, he moved to the country, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. He bought a small house at the edge of a field where he spent the rest of his days thinking about his life and thinking about Linda.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sharp knock on the door. The old man was startled. It was late, and he never had any visitors anyway.
“Who is it?” the old man croaked hoarsely.
There was no answer.
The old man sat there for a moment, waiting for a reply. Nothing, nothing but the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof. “Ears be playing tricks on me,” he muttered to himself. He was fumbling back into his sheets, when there was knocking again.
“Who is it?” he called out, louder this time. Still no answer.
Something felt wrong. The old man got up and groped around the bedside table for his cane. It wasn’t there. He felt around the floor for it. It wasn’t there either. His heart skipped a beat. There was another knock on the door. The old man started to panic. He wasn’t used to moving about without a cane. More knocking. The old man hobbled over to the door, his hands grabbing blindly for the doorknob. Knock, knock, knock. He opened the door. A breath of cold wind stung his cheeks.
“Who is it?” the old man asked. The only reply was the drumming of the rain on the roof and the whistling of the wind. He reached out his hands and tried to feel for a face, a torso. Nothing. His fingers were met with cold air. Confused and worried, the old man turned to closed the door. Just then out of the darkness he saw something. HE SAW SOMETHING. His heart skipped a beat. It was faded, foggy. He couldn’t make out what it was at first. Slowly, the image became clearer. It was a small puff of pink smoke. No, that wasn’t pink, he thought to himself. That’s green. The old man felt his head spinning. “Something is happening,” he said under his breath.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the puff of green smoke dissipated. The old man’s heart sank. Wait, he could see something else. Another green puff of smoke appeared, a few feet away from the first one. He moved closer, out of the shack into the rain. He felt the icy raindrops falling like small hailstones on his old shoulders. Yes, it was green smoke. There was another colour as well. What was it? The old man remembered himself playing as a child in the mud. Rich thick brown.
Another wisp of smoke appeared, larger and even further away from the second as it was from the first. It was grey. The old man looked intently. It was a slab of stone. The old man rubbed his eyes furiously. The slab of stone was still there. This must be the path leading from the house, the old man said to himself. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, having not seen for more than half his life. He felt an adrenaline rush, and a mad tingle shooting up his spine.
He felt the rain getting lighter.
Slowly but surely, a foggy grey line of smoke came into view. A snaky path of stone slabs. Unable to deprive his curiosity and eager excitement, the man followed down the path. His breath grew warmer. His hobbling gait became strong, sure footed steps. Every now and then he thought of Linda.
With every step he took, the path grew wider. He could see the wildflowers that grew on the side of the path. He bent down and picked them up, rubbing the yellow and purple petals with his fingers. The old man felt tears well up in his eyes. As they streamed down his cheeks, they seemed to wash the blackness slowly away from his eyes. The blackness he hated but couldn’t get rid of. The blackness that robbed his youth, his ambitions, his prospects, everything. The blackness that robbed Linda’s sweet countenance. When the blackness was all washed away, the old man gasped and stood there in awe as he gazed upon the most breath-taking scene.
The rain had stopped. Before him was the sea. Calm, like a cerulean piece of glass stretched far into the horizon. And where the sea met the sky, the sun was peeking out, dyeing the sky with a rich blend crimson and saffron, which tinged the soft puffy clouds, and tinted the glassy sea. As the old man stood there with the warmth of the sun’s glow beating down on his tired face, with his eyes closed, for the first time in a long time he smiled. His chest felt warm and fuzzy.
“Morgan.” A soft whisper, almost sounding like a breeze, whisked past his ear.
The old man opened his eyes. He saw the sun. Linda’s face was etched on it. She beckoned him to come. He took a step forward. And another. His eyes were fixed on her beautiful cherubic face. He didn’t see he was standing on a cliff. He didn’t see that every step he took was getting closer to the edge. He didn’t see the ground beneath him give way.
And he fell.
As he fell, the old man did not feel frightened. He closed his eyes and all he could see was her. Linda. The wind rushed through him, through his hair, through his clothes, and through his fingers. There were sharp rocks and crashing waves beneath him. But he did not care. He fell faster and faster and faster towards the rocks. Then there was a flash of light.
Morgan gave a yell as he woke up. Panting and dazed, he tried to remember the dream. No, it wasn’t the same as the one last night. Or the night before. Or the night before that. In fact, he thought, I’ve never had that dream before. He heard the rain pounding on the roof. He felt thirsty, so he reached over to his bedside table and poured himself a glass of water. He saw his cane leaning on the bedside table. He looked out of the window and saw it the rain pattering outside. He looked back and he saw the silver locket lying on the table. In it was the face of a lady.
“Linda.” he said to himself, and he smiled.
8:50 PM}