Part I
When he awoke, the doctor told him the truth. She spoke softly, her voice as smooth as a newly brewed cup of coffee and as peaceful as a summer night. She had made the tragedy of a vehicle accident sound as insignificant as a scratch in this tone, so he determined that’s what the consequences of his accident would be now: a scratch.
“Do you feel like talking?” The doctor asked.
It took him a while to answer. “Yes,” he finally responded.
“Alright. Do you remember your name?”
“Mateo. Mateo Harmon.”
“Can you see anything, Mr. Harmon?”
“No, ma’am. Is that normal?”
“Given your circumstances, yes.”
She excused herself to check up on another patient, and Mateo anxiously waited for her return. He tried feeling around his surroundings, only to realize he had no clue where he was.
The doorknob rattled, indicating the doctor’s re-entrance. “Is that you again?” Mateo said desperately.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Where am I?” His head bounced around in the void of darkness.
The doctor’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. “Your mother has been wanting to speak with you for quite some time. She misses you very much.”
“My mother? I’d like to speak with her too.”
The doctor became occupied with something in the distance, and Mateo heard her fiddling with an object in the room. Possibly a plastic tube or a needle she had been flicking.
“When will I be able to return to my home? My cat-- oh, Margot must be starving.” Mateo said to the darkness.
The doctor sighed sympathetically. “Mr. Harmon, you’re in no shape to return home.”
Mateo began to feel queasy, yet he kept himself from throwing up because he was oblivious to where he was or what was wrong with him. He reminded himself that the vast pain in his eye sockets was just small scratches-- as if his elderly cat Margot had scratched him in his sleep. He had managed to convince himself that the only reason why he couldn’t see was that it hurt him too much to open his eyes, and his life would return to normal once they were fully healed. His self-persuasion worked for a little while. That is until the thought that he would be blind forever began trickling into his head.
The doctor must’ve sensed the patient’s anxiety because, in a condoling attempt to distract him, she asked, “What do you like to do in your free time, Mateo?”
“I write.”
“Oh,” she paused. “I’ve met blind people who write. Many actually. They write very well.”
“What?” Mateo responded. “What do you mean?”
The doctor frowned. “Mateo, your eyes were gouged out. In a car crash.”
“So I will never be able to see the world again?”
The doctor sighed.
The two fell into another momentary pause, and though Mateo wasn’t able to feel his toes or any other part of his body, he felt the same social discomfort he felt before the scratch.
“How long have you been a doctor?”
She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Harmon, I never said I was a doctor.
