Chapter Text
People used to ask me things, questions impossible for me to answer. Every time someone met me, they would ask one of the following questions:
1. How do you perceive the world?
I couldn't answer this question. How do you explain your world to an alien? How do you explain something that has been around you all your life to someone who doesn't even know the most basic element of it? It was like me asking the ones who can see what color looks like. They would stop talking, stare ahead for a while, thinking, open their mouth, struggle with their words, and ultimately come up with nothing. That was what they were asking of me – explain what is so normal to you to someone who has no idea what you are talking about. It's impossible. Absolutely impossible.
Most of the time, I just said that I saw the world exactly as they do, but without color. I had no idea of knowing whether or not that is true. I suspected that it was, because I knew where to place my plates on the table, I knew where to get into the car, I knew where to duck in the woods. The clacks of my tongue let me know where everything was, and if they didn't, I had my stick to let me know.
I saw everything that seeing people do, but color. I was pretty sure of that.
The second question they asked me is: How do you perceive color?
I didn't. Or at least, I didn't think I did. I didn't know what color is. I didn't know what I should see. Again, the answer to this question requires a question in return: what does color look like? We have already established that the seeing can't answer this question, so why should I have been able to do so?
Next up: How do you dream?
I dreamed exactly as I saw the world; the seeing do too. They dream in color, I dreamed in, well, shapes. As we've established, I knew what a table, car, tree, any normal item looks like. I used those in my dreams.
Then they would proceed to ask me how those items look like, and I asked "How does a table look like to you?" and they'd reply "A flat surface on four pillars" and that was exactly what it looked like to me. I know what things look like, I just can't 'see' them.
Those are the questions they always asked me, and as you can see, I could answer none of them. Because they were asking me to explain my world to them, and, well, that is impossible.
…
Some people would also ask me if I disliked not being able to see. I would answer "no" to that. Sure, sometimes I would've liked to see. I would've liked to know what was going on in class without someone having to explain me it. I would've liked to get my schoolbooks in normal letters instead of in braille and save my parents some money. I would've liked to understand what people are experiencing when they yell "That's so beautiful! Look at all those colors!". I would've liked to be able to appreciate my sister's art.
But did I dislike not being able to see? No. I did not. I didn't care, honestly. I had never seen, I had never known what I was missing, so it was hard to miss it. I could 'see' just fine, in my own way. I had my world, they had theirs, and while I was curious about it, I didn't necessarily long to live in it.
So yeah, I was fine with not being able to see.
…
My parents weren't fine with my lack of vision, however.
They had taken me to expert after expert, to no avail. Every single one told them that nothing could be done: the damage was permanent. I had always been fine with that, but they weren't. They thought that I couldn't hear mom cry from downstairs, but I could. They think that I couldn't hear dad's hushed, pitying voice when he explained to his acquaintances that I couldn't see. But I heard that, that and so much more, and I knew that they weren't fine with this, even if I was.
The only one who understood my situation was Michella. She understood because she was like me. She, too, had been hauled to every doctor in a 100 kilometer radius. She, too, had heard our parents' cries and pitying voices. Her legs were unable to move, just like my eyes were unable to see, and she understood me just like I understood her.
It was not the same. Her world was completely different from mine, but her world was also different from other people's worlds. Not able to run, walk, cycle, skate, or even stand, she was bound to her chair whereas others were free to go as they wish. I couldn't understand her on this, just like she couldn't understand my sight (or lack thereof). But came closer to understanding each other than anyone else has ever come, because we were essentially the same.
Except for one thing.
Michella knew what she was missing.
I could never see the world of the seeing, but Michella could see the world of the walking. She could see them running, walking, cycling, skating and standing. She saw the thresholds that prevent her from entering a building, she saw the children laughing during gym. She saw the others use their legs, she could imagine what it's like, and unlike me, she knew what she was missing.
Yet, she didn't complain. She laughed when our parents dragged her to yet another doctor that was doomed to fail, she comforted them when they inevitably did, she listened to the complains of her friends about the pain in their knees, she cheered for the girls' team during gym.
I didn't think I would have been able to do that. I thought that if I had known what I had been missing, if I could have seen the other world beyond the fog, I wouldn't have been able to keep as calm as she did.
She's stronger than me, stronger than I'll ever be. I still stand by that opinion. I'm proud of her.
…
Once I screamed at them. My parents, I mean. I screamed at them after they planned an appointment with doctor This-Or-That and didn't even let me know until a day before we were supposed to go see him. I had had a bad day, and I was tired. I couldn't deal with this right now.
So I screamed at them. I screamed everything that I had always wanted to say. That it was useless. That I would never get better. That they should stop trying to make it happen, because I was fine with this. That they should stop trying to make themselves feel better. That they should stop seeing me like a broken tool, and that they should start seeing me as my own person.
In the end, it was Michella that had to comfort them. She had to tell them that what I said wasn't true, and that they shouldn't listen to me. She had to tell them that, even though she agreed with me.
I had made my parents cry, and she comforted them.
I think that this illustrates the difference between us beautifully.
…
Hellsalem's Lot was the last resort and we all knew it, even if none of us said it out loud. We all knew that this wasn't just some simple vacation: it was my parents' last attempt. The last ditch effort. The last change for a miracle to occur. Which was exactly what they wanted to happen: a miracle.
I was pissed off, I have to admit. Really, really pissed off. I wanted them to stop already, to just leave us alone. I knew that they would never do that, but it didn't matter to me anymore. I wanted them to stop. To stop right now.
Then, a miracle occurred. Whether this was a good thing or not, that was debatable.
I didn't see it, of course. The wind changed, the background sounds faded, there was a large presence by my side. That's how I knew.
It asked us which one of us it should save. It asked us to choose between Michella's legs or my eyes.
And this, this right here, is why I showed you guys the scene between my parents, me and Michella in the previous paragraph. Michella, as we've established, is a braver and better person than I am.
So when I froze, she spoke up.
Then everything burned.