prologue
This story contains themes of poor mental health, self harm, and suicidal tendencies/attempts - this is your trigger warning.
He can’t do this. He just can’t.
It’s too hard.
The first three months after the accident seemed manageable.
So he went blind. So what?
So he would have to start over and figure everything out from scratch. Rory had heard stories of people with admittedly harder disabilities get through it. So what if he slams into things he never did before?
Rory tries to be grateful. The accident could’ve been much worse. He could’ve lost limbs on top of his blindness, could’ve ended up brain dead, could’ve ended up with permanent brain damage, could’ve died-
Three months ago he had a decent mindset. So he was blind. So what? It wasn’t like he’d lose all his friends and his passions and his interests - he just couldn’t see, that’s all. A little issue, but one that was said to be manageable by the doctors.
And besides -
He throws a plate, chest heaving, hears it shatter on the wall.
- Doctors make discoveries every day. Maybe in a few months there’d be a cure, some kind of transplant surgery. Besides, they had told him he might regain the ability to see clearer. Still shadows, but an improvement nevertheless.
He hurls insults at god, at the creator, if there even is one, throws more items. Everything that Rory’s desperate hands can grasp ends up getting hurled around the kitchen. Plates, cups, silverware, décor - everything.
And his potential baseball scholarship? Big deal. It’s not like he could’ve gone pro anyway.
He admits it had been hard when all of his friends stopped visiting. Even harder when the excuses came through of why they couldn’t come by. Harder still when everyone moved on without him.
His world is shattered, much like the broken dishes that litter the kitchen that he can’t even see.
How could everyone move on without him? How could anyone still function? He can’t see. Don’t they understand that? He’ll never see another sunrise. He’ll never see another person’s face again.
Don’t his friends know? His family? The world? The doctors? How could any of them let this happen?
He’ll never walk without a dog or a walking stick.
But so what? There are other blind teenagers that make it work, some of whom who have been blind since infancy. If they can do it, so can he -
Except he can’t. He just can’t.
The screams that emit from his lips make his entire body quake. He regrets smashing up the kitchen immediately. It’s not like he can clean it up by the time his family gets back.
He just can’t do it.
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” he whispers through broken sobs, like a mantra to a god he can’t see or feel, sinking to the floor. His jeans sink into the hardwood flooring, already cut by pieces of broken glass that he can’t see. “I really can’t, please."
He wants his sight back. Without it, he feels like nothing. Without it, everything seems worth nothing.
And he’s scared. He’s seventeen, but so scared. He’s scared of the dark now and he can’t stand to be alone in it anymore.
He feels around, grasps the broken edge of a plate or a cup - he doesn’t know, only knows that it feels sturdy.
He gives himself a beat of a pause, then brings the shard up to his extended wrist.
But so what? People kill themselves all the time. And besides, maybe there will be an after, an after in which he can see again.
So what?
