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F2K Story

by Michelle Roberts

If I could give you one thing…

I’ve always known I would go blind. As soon as I was old enough to understand, I was told that my vision was temporary and one day it would just fade out..

My parents were both artists, of the carefree, tie-dyed clothes and dope plants on the patio kind. My condition soon changed that. My father left. To hear mother tell it he was a gutless coward and a kid like me was just too much for him. I’m sure there was more to it, but it didn’t matter, he was gone. Mother stayed and gave up her paints and dope and focused on preparing me for blindness.

‘If I could give you one thing,’ she said, ‘I’d give you the ability to look at things, the way I do, the way artists do.’

‘But I can’t, so you will have to learn the hard way and you’d do it fast or you will have no proper memories to rely on when you are blind.

‘You must look clearly. A white rose is not white but a thousand shades of violet, green, pink and yellow. Notice the shape of each petal and the way they fold and turn. A tree is not green and brown but blue, ochre, red and purple. When I have finished teaching you to look you will never see a grey pigeon or a green frog again. Looking lessons, as she called them, began the next day.

Mother took me to the country-side or a big city or an art gallery, anywhere where there was a lot to see. I had to look at a scene until I felt I had seen everything, then close my eyes and describe it to her. If I missed anything she would make me look again and, with terrible patience, would make me describe it to her all over again. After a while my powers of observation would have shamed Sherlock Holmes.

An artist, really looking at something, will enter an altered state. They may lose time and the ability to speak. Many of the worlds’ greatest artists have been thought eccentric or even mad and their painting often considered evidence of their lunacy. This is not true. Artists have transcended normalcy and achieved an enlightened state because they see the world as it truly is.

So said mother, over and over again. She was a real artist before I came along and she had given it up, for me, so that I could learn to see as she did. I was not allowed to paint or draw for what would be the point once I was blind. Words were the medium with which I described the contours, textures and colours of things I looked at, recalling everything minute detail until I could close my eyes and still see it in my mind, almost as if I was looking right through my closed lids.

My escape from looking lessons was reading super-hero comics. Spiderman was my favourite. I read somewhere that, if one sense was impaired, all the other senses became sharper to compensate. I was convinced that I would become some super hero after I went blind. I drew a design for a super suit with a big eye on the front and my name was to be Eye-ESPye. I happily told mother about this one day, getting more and more excited, only trailing off when I realised she wasn’t listening to me.

‘What I was thinking,’ she said, ‘what use is reading to you? You need Braille lessons of course, no more comics or books.’

I was really upset.

‘But mom, what about what about Spider-man? What about my super suit?’

‘My dear’ she said,’ you must grow up and stop playing around. What’s happening to you is a big deal. You will go blind and never see again, there is nothing super about that, it’s terrible and you must be prepared. You should have started Braille lessons years ago.’

She paused, then smiled.

‘Well no matter, we’ll start tomorrow.

Melinda-May became my Braille teacher and with her help I quickly picked up reading with my fingers instead of my eyes. She was my friend and we had the kind of wonderful conversations that meander along, touching on many different subjects at random, like a butterfly browsing a summer garden. One day the talk turned to super heroes and I started to cry. I explained through sobs and hiccups and she went very quiet, her lips so thin they looked like a scar. I though she was angry with me, but the next day she handed me a couple of comics and a T-shirt with an eye appliquéd on the front of it.

‘From now on you will wear this t-shirt for our lessons and we will study the comics to get tips on being a good super-hero’.

The next week Melinda-May didn’t come and mother told me that we no longer needed her. I searched for the comics and t-shirt but they were gone and I realised I hated mother.

Looking lessons filled my days. When I saw the other world for the first time I thought it was eyestrain. I was staring at a magnificent willow tree and as I watched it shimmered, then warped and changed into a misshapen, misbegotten thing in colours that bruised my eyes. I shut them tight and it took a while for the darkness to overlay the awful picture. When I finally plucked up the courage to open my eyes, the willow was back, dangling graceful green leaves into a small, clear pool.

Mother was alarmed thinking this meant my sight was starting to go and for a while she was kind but soon the nagging started up again.

It wasn’t mothers’ badgering but a rose that made me look again. Mother handed it to me still wrapped in a sheet of white tissue paper and I stared, it was glorious. It was such a deep crimson that it bordered on black. My fingers tingled as they explored the sensual curves of the warm velvet petals. I put it to my nose and breathed in its’ fresh, rich scent and an elusive hint of pomegranate and strawberry filled my mouth. The rose seemed to hum, reassuringly, like a lullaby and I felt as if I could curl it’s petals around me and sleep in its’ beauty forever.

Then it squirmed in my hand like a worm and its’ colour became ghastly. The texture under my fingertips was slimy and clinging and I shuddered. It smelled of decomposition with a sickeningly sweet overlay of roses and bile filled in my throat.. A discordant wail began as the petals drew back revealing a wet yellow globe with a slitted pupil that focused on me. I flung it away from me and crawled shrieking towards the door. Mother tried to grab me and I kicked at her before scrambling to my feet and running into the garden.. Everything was monstrously, horribly wrong. I was in a nightmare world and no matter where I ran or how hard I rubbed my eyes it wouldn’t go away. I sank my fingers into my eyes, pushing deep into the sockets against the terrible pain, scratching and tearing at my eyes until they were slimy jelly in my hands and still I could see those things everywhere, looking at me, hurting my head and stomach with their textures and colours.

Mother lied, artists go crazy because, even half glimpsed, this world drives needles of madness into your soul. If I still had my eyesight I know the blackness inside my lids would block the dreadful things, if I could shut my eyes tight enough. But now I am blind, eyeless in fact, there is nothing I can do. Closing my lids makes no difference—I see them all the time. These things from hell talk to me, prod me and force terrible things into my body. They tell me in sibilant, sly voices that I am in an institution, in a padded cell and on medication to control a psychosis brought on by losing my sight. They are lying. I see the oozing, putrid cave I’m in very clearly. I see the modified tentacles on my wrists that stop me tearing out my throat. I’ve tried to shatter my skull by throwing myself against the walls and floors but they are soft and cushiony and the foul ooze they feed me must be drugged because I get tired very quickly. But I have a secret plan. My super powers are increasing and one day I will burst out of this nightmare and go back to my world. I will find mother and say to her, ‘If I could give you one thing, I would give you the ability to see the world as I do’. Then I will throw her into this world she gave me with her looking lessons.

F2K: an Introduction to Creative Writing teaches the basics of fiction writing. Since 1995, R.J. Hembree's free six-week course has helped thousands of writers from around the world. Writer’s Digest has selected F2K as one of the best sites for writers. F2K has three objectives: To help beginning writers learn the basic terminology of fiction writing (a good refresher for experienced writers too). Writers will also find the elements of fiction useful in non-fiction or poetry. To encourage writers to habitually write without fear. To give writers a chance to meet and develop friendships with writers from around the world. At the end of each session, F2K sponsors a short story contest. Students who post all six assignments are eligible to enter. Each mentor chooses a finalist from his/her room. The finalists' poll is open to the general public for voting. Read the past finalist stories at: http://fiction.4-writers.com/past-f2k-contest-stories.shtml