Through The Cemetery Backyards

I rise up from the chair, trying to gain coordination in the unfamiliar surroundings. In moments like this, that’s when I feel most miserable. I feel sorry for myself, that no one is coming to help me or tell me everything is going to be okay one day. Sometimes all I need is verbal support, really. I wonder if Mr Ackermann is watching me struggle right now, just because it’s fun for him. He wouldn't care though; with all his golden awards sitting on his shelves, he's practically invincible. Plus it's not exactly his job, helping blind people move around.

I stretch my arm out forward, feeling around the air, only hoping that I won’t crash into the wall. I take several hesitant steps, feeling small and lost, like a kitten who’s just been thrown out into the rainy streets. Helpless. Suddenly someone firmly grasps my elbow, squeezing; their bony fingers press into my skin, pulling my arm downwards. For a split second, I almost think it’s my mom, but then the person speaks up.

“Here, let me help you,” Frank says, pulling me forward by the arm in the direction of the therapists office. I turn to face the direction where his voice is coming from, giving him a small smile. His hot breath blows over my face, he must be very close. It smells like mint.

“Thank you,” I say.

“No problem,”

He walks me for several meters before sliding his hand down my forearm and placing his cold, dry palm on the top of mine. He gently leads my hand onto a cold, smooth surface, wrapping my fingers around it. The door handle. His breath fades and disappears into the air as he takes a step back away from me.

“I hope to see you again some time, Gerard,” he says. That’s most likely never going to happen but oddly, I kind of want to talk to him again, too.

“Me too,” I reply shortly and, giving him one last smile, enter the room. The door shuts close behind me.

“Gerard!” mom immediately exclaims, as if she hasn’t seen me in years. I walk several steps forward before my knees bump into the couch and I slowly sink down on it, feeling my mother’s warmth next to me. Her voice sounds shaky and broken, as if she’s about to break down in wild sobs, and it scares me. I always know when she is troubled, no matter how much she fakes cheer in her voice. I feel it in the air, her depressing and completely overwhelming aura just floating around the space. I never acknowledge it though, it’s better for her to think that I’m oblivious to everything around me, like a little child, a defenseless, dependent newborn. She interlocks our fingers. Her hand is wet and trembling slightly.

“Well, Gerald, I think I know what’s wrong, but we need you to answer some questions, ja?” Mr Ackermann utters. His english really isn’t that great, and he keeps mixing German words into his speech, which is really starting to get on my nerves. Maybe it’s not even his fault, but I can’t help but feel frustrated. I clench my fist.

“Ja ja,” I mock him, pissed off enough to not care about being polite. This earns me a nudge in the ribs from mom. Mr Ackermann himself ignores my remark and I’m thankful for it, because now I’m starting to regret my choice of words. “It’s Gerard, by the way,” I add quietly, feeling blood rush into my cheeks. All of this would have been so much easier if I could see.

“Sorry, Gerard, my bad. So, ersten question. Do you sometimes feel not comfortable in the dark?”

“No, not really,” I reply truthfully after several seconds of thinking. I’ve grown used the dark, it’s been 10 years. It was extremely hard and traumatizing in the beginning, and I had a constant feeling that I was being strangled by a pair of cold hands wherever I went. At some point, I was sure I was going to die.

My ears catch the scribble of Mr Ackermann’s pencil on the paper as it crumbles softly under the touch. He is taking notes.

“Gut. Now, who do you live with?” he continues, emphasizing of the word “you”. The strange thing about this is that he actually sounds as if he’s interested in my life; he sounds genuine even though his question doesn’t make much sense.

“Um, my mom and my cat, Bubbles,” I utter and immediately detect my mom’s heavy breath and a whimper, which she’s obviously trying to hide as her hand immediately disappears from mine. I imagine her covering her mouth, muffling the sobs as she crouches over, hoping I won’t hear. A shiver runs down my spine; I’m scared and something is really, really wrong. What’s going on?

“That’s it?” the therapist inquires as if there are supposed to be at least ten more people sharing an apartment with us.

“Yeah. Just me, mom and Bubbles,”

Heavy silence falls upon us, and I am not sure if I said something wrong or not. My mom is completely silent, and for a moment I’m almost assured she’s left the room; I panicky feel around the couch and stumble onto her hand. However, she harshly pulls it away from me. I scooch away from her slightly, pressing into the armrest of the couch.

The therapist asks me several more casual questions while my mother stays quiet, only occasionally letting out a heavy, even shaky breath. About 30 minutes pass before Mr Ackermann finally seems satisfied.

“I think I can help you, Gerard,” he says after the last question, which was about the colour of my cat’s fur. I didn’t know the answer, we got the cat right after I lost my vision so I never actually saw him.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” my mother cheers and I face the direction of her voice, trying to find some support in her.

“Mom? Help me with what?” I ask but my voice comes out weaker than I intended it to be; it’s a whisper.

“Oh, it’s almost nothing, I was overreacting,” her hand lands on my cheek and she brushes her thumb against my skin. I tense up under her touch “It’s alright baby, don’t worry”

As we walk away from the therapist’s office, my hand interlocked with my mother’s, a familiar, slightly high-pitched and raspy voice calls out for me from behind.

“See ya later, Gerard,”

Notes