Through The Cemetery Backyards

My words seem to have the desired effect on the guy as his voice noticeably quiets down. He chokes back an embarrassed gasp and his hand, which I haven’t even noticed before, leaves my forearm. I continue to stare in his direction, only hoping that my eyes are directed right at him. That way he’ll feel like I’m actually watching him.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” he mutters out quickly and I feel the glasses being shoved harshly into my hands. I accept them, feeling as if I just won a battle. There is now a raspy note and a stutter in his voice, too. I achieved what I wanted, I made him feel like the last piece of shit in the world, and it feels great to be a winner. Especially if you just put down an asshole. The best fucking feeling in the world.

“It’s alright,” I say, raising my chin upwards and turning my head to look ahead of me as if I’m utterly disgusted by the guy’s behavior. I’m going to milk as much profit from this as possible. I know I’m not being nice or respectful, but right now I could not care less. I’m angry. I’m angry, because my mother is hiding something from me. I’m angry, because this guy just ripped my glasses off me, calling me “Casanova”. I’m angry because I’m fucking blind and it’s being shoved into my face every five minutes. “Oh thank you, I forgot I was blind, thank you for a reminder, bless your beautiful soul,” - is that what they expect me to say every time they acknowledge my disability?

“If I knew, I’d never-”

“I said it’s alright, it’s not like it’s your fault anyway,” I cut him off simply, shrugging my shoulders like it’s no business.

“Sorry,” he repeats again. I decide to ignore him completely, at least until he finds something better to talk about. Otherwise, I’m not interested.

Sure, sometimes it’s good and even helpful to have someone to talk to, a friend you can trust, but I don’t want to repeat my old, unforgettable and disappointing experience. People are not nice, they are pathetic and ridiculous, skipping around in their nice-guy masks as if they are a part of a crazy ballet show. It’s all just a cover, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise. People don’t change, and in order to survive you must always, always keep this in the back of your mind. All a human life consists of is a constant battle for dominance, for the throne on the top of the world which only the special ones get a chance to set their asses on. And in order to get to the top, you, of course, need to push someone off. They’ll slaughter anyone who stands in their way, they are unstoppable and not to be argued with, somewhat like tanks running over defenseless souldiers, who can do nothing but scream in agony. I’ve figured out long ago that the quiet, outcast kids are the sweetest. They are pure, innocent, and innocence is exactly what our society lacks.

I personally find sickenly sweet pleasure in being alone; I love it dearly and hate it bitterly all at the same time. It’s really better to not overthink it, or you might as well lose your marbles. And then you have a trip to a mental institution guaranteed.

Those who trust are the ones who die too early.

Silence falls upon us, but it’s awkward only for him: I’m used to being quiet around people. I don’t even know they are next to me most of the time until they make attempts at communication, so I don’t mind this one bit.

“So, what’s your name?” he asks hesitantly after a few minutes. Finally.

“Gerard. You?”

“Frank Iero. It’s nice to meet you,”

I nod, turning to face the direction of his voice. I slid my glasses back on- he deserves a rest, and I’m actually set for a decent conversation.

“Nice to meet you too, Frank,” I stretch my cracked dry lips out in a smile. As skin tears, I feel an irony taste of blood on the tip of tongue. I kind of like it. Not in the way you’d enjoy a glass of coke though.

“...And you are here because?..” he asks. “Obviously you aren’t visiting a therapist because you’re blind?” he lets out a nervous chuckle which sounds more like an “eh”. To be honest, I’m glad he’s joking about it- people are usually not as brave and straight forward when it comes to this sort of things. Maybe it’s right, but I like it when people around me are more laid back.

“I don’t know actually. My mom brought me here ‘cause she’s worried about something. She wanted to discuss it with the therapist without me in the room,” I scratch my palm. “And you?”

“Um, I’m here to support someone,”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s a friend of mine. We aren’t that close, but right now he needs help more than ever,”

It’s hard to admit, but Frank doesn’t seem horrible, he’s been decent so far. We fall silent again before Frank speaks up.

“Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you lose your sight?”

“It was in a housefire about 10 years ago,” I reply. I remember when it just happened I used to tell long stories, but now I can hardly press out more than three words out of myself.

“Wow,” he breathes out and for some reason he again rests his hand on my forearm, squeezing lightly. “Do you still remember what the world looks like?”

“Kind of. I remember the sky, trees, mountains, houses and what people look like… I know what all colours look like, I can imagine them, if that makes sense,”

“It does, really,” he assures me and I smile again.

“Gerald?” Mr Ackermann’s voice suddenly calls out for me from a distance. My own therapist can’t say my name right, marvelous. “Gerald could you please come in?”

Frank’s hand unwillingly slides off my arm.

Notes

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