Wait... this can't be right. It feels like my palette, but it looks nothing like what I was expecting. I feel around the contours, and confirm that... yes, it's definitely the right shape. But as I gaze upon it... confusion, disbelief.
I don't see the colors. Any of them.
Did I clean it before I went to bed? No, definitely not. I distinctly remember not tidying up, worried that I would be struck with the searing pain of my migraine as I was washing the paint off, and would wind up leaving an even bigger mess. So why do I see none of the colors of the rainbow on this platter resting in my hands? I stupidly pass my hands over where the paint should be, and realize that there was, in fact, plenty of paint, still wet, sitting on the palette. So now, even though I can't see it, I feel glops of paint all over my hands. Fantastic.
Making my best effort to concentrate, I study the board, only now picking up the textures of the paint, but still no distinct colors. How can the world around me be so vibrant, more so than ever before, but my own tools are muted to me?
I study the room once more, hoping that focusing my eyes in different ways and at varying distances will help bring back some familiar colors; the black remote control, the brown television stand, my beautifully painted lavender walls. But nothing helps to return these shades to my sight. I fear I'll never see the world the same again.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice it. The easel, with my sunset, the one James admired last night. There's nothing there. At least, nothing that I can see, other than the vague outlines of the patterns of brush strokes. Mostly, I can see right through my largely invisible sunset, to the blank painting hanging on the wall behind it, and through that to the building across the street. And through that, as well, through more buildings, all the way to the horizon.
I stand there, staring, for what feels like an eternity. What do I do now?
----------
As I walk through my neighborhood, nothing's the same. The vibrant colors of my neighbors’ homes are muted, replaced by more striking shades that appear from behind, below, through. I can see the pipes and cables under the ground, the endless variations of brown and gray dirt and rock composing the earth below. I can see shapes inside the buildings: furniture, fixtures, appliances, foundations. And bodies. People, pets, rodents, all scurrying about inside their caves.
Yet any particular object is hidden to me, in a way. I can mostly determine what they are based on their shape and size, but am unable to see many of the other details that we pick up on at an early age as we learn to label things by color, texture, transparency, and reflectivity. At the convenience store in the strip mall on the corner, I stare at, or rather through, various newspapers and magazines, unable to pick up on any of the print. Hearing the television above the counter, I glance up, seeing nothing but tubes, wires, and a flickering screen.
"Miss, are you alright?" A stranger's voice. I look at his face, a network of canals splintering through his skull, connecting to the globs that are his eyeballs, inner ears, and brain. He could have been a close friend, or a perfect stranger, and I would not know the difference by sight alone. I walk away without a word. What can I say that he would possibly understand? I hear him mutter under his breath, "Whatever."
So far on my walk around the neighborhood, I've discovered a few depressing things. I can't read anything on street signs, or in any form of writing or drawing, whether it be books, billboards, or traffic signs, one exception being the large block letters affixed to storefronts. Those stand out against the flat background of the facade. I don't know how I'm going to do my job come Monday morning. I also can't discern stoplight colors, so driving will be nearly impossible. And as with the stranger I met earlier, I can't make out any details on people's faces. This is the worst of all. I haven't run into anyone I know yet, but when I do, I won't recognize them except by voice alone.
My first instinct was to call James or Julie, but I'm anxious to see them, because I'm afraid of what I will and won't see. I will, of course, eventually have to confront them, and deal with their new appearance. I guess that's what I fear the most, that James will no longer be attractive to me. Because I realized today that, well, people are ugly on the inside.
I return to my apartment, considering it a small victory that I only stumbled and fell three times. Twice on curbs, once on a piece of sidewalk concrete that a nearby tree had pushed upward a bit.
I again consider calling James, or Julie, but I don't think I'm ready to pull anyone into this crazy world yet, when I haven't even remotely adjusted to it yet myself. I wish Mom and Dad were still here. They might have the right words to say, sage advice to lend. But I'm alone in this, at least until I can gather the courage to tell someone, until I can somehow explain it. I feel more alone now than I've been since they left to return to Mumbai. I look around my apartment, once so full of color, and fall into despair. I feel my way to the couch, sit down, and bury my head in my hands. I miss you, Mommy and Daddy.
----------
I never even bothered going to work on Monday, or any day after. I considered calling out sick to buy some more time, but I gave up when I remembered that I couldn't read the screen on my cell phone anymore. So I sat, waiting for someone to call me. It took a few hours, but finally Julie called, sounding upset.
"Dude, I've been texting you for hours. Mr. Sanders is pissed. Are you alright?"
I had been trying to craft some story to tell all morning, and figured the best thing to do was to kill two birds with one stone. "No. I must have some kind of eye infection, everything's real blurry, so I couldn't read any texts or find the contacts on my cell. I need a huge favor, Jules. Can you find an eye doctor near my house and make an appointment for me?"
She agreed, as I knew she would, and promised to smooth things over with the boss. But I had doubts the doctor would be able to help me, and figured I wouldn't be returning to work anytime soon, possibly ever.
As I suspected, there was nothing the optometrist could do. He was very kind, but didn't see anything wrong with my eyes, even though I could read none of the letters on the chart. He even tried cards with different shapes and colors, clearly meant for children, but it was no use. I could see the outlines of cards themselves well enough, but I saw right through what was printed on them.
"Well, this is very odd. I don't see any signs of infection or degeneration, so I'm hesitant to prescribe antibiotics or corrective lenses. Let me do some research with the pictures I've taken of your retina, and we'll make a return appointment for next week."
I agreed, but somehow I knew he wouldn't find anything like my case in medical journals. The follow up appointment yielded nothing useful, nor did any others over the next few months. I appreciate that he made wholehearted attempts to contact all the preeminent experts in the field, but they, too, didn't see anything wrong, a few even going so far as to suggest it was all in my head.
Of course, I never divulged to any of them what I could actually see, which was far more than they could. Whenever I tested those waters as hypotheticals, they would snicker or dismiss it outright. I guess experts aren't always right.
I started living life as a "blind" out of work artist. Julie and James thought I was crazy to quit my job to pursue art, but what else could I do?
"It's not like I don't have time for it, James. I can't read anymore. Kinda hard to work in a bank if I can't see any numbers on paper or a computer screen."
"Girl, all I'm saying is you could've gotten them to find you something you could do, that didn't involve handling money, that's all."
"Like what, sweeping floors? I'm not a janitor."
Julie nods. "I don't mean to take his side, Pri, but Sanders even said they would've worked with you, figured out something. But not now. He felt kinda burned when you just stopped showing up and didn't even try to reach out. What was it he said? 'You can't lead the camel to the oasis' or something weird like that."
I stare at her, incredulous. "What does that even mean? I'm a camel?"
"Dude, I don't know. All I'm saying is that you can't afford to stay here without a steady income, and I'm sorry to say, I don't think you'll be selling these anytime soon." She points to the "paintings" I've created since going blind. "You know I would let you crash if my roommates and I had the extra space. I just don't want to see you get into real money trouble. How are you even paying rent?"
James chimes in before I can sheepishly retell my lie. "Oh, get this, Jules. She's selling family heirlooms on eBay. Family! Heirlooms!" So dramatic. When Jules asks how I use a computer, I explain there are accessibility features, even though in truth I haven’t figured out how they work. "Girl, you know I can loan you some money until you get back on your feet, just say the word--"
"NO!" Well that shut him up. More forceful than I intended. "I won't be some pitiful little girl asking for handouts. I'll find something, I promise. Let's change the subject. What's wrong with this one?"
James and Julie study the piece in front of them. I've been telling them that even though I can no longer read or see details in things, I can still paint, since I'm able to see some colors, blobs, and shapes. Since that's only partially true, I've been relying on their critiques to help me figure out if I can continue with my work. At first, they were being dishonest, out of kindness. But I broke them of that habit quickly. Unfortunately, their honest feedback hasn't helped. I just don't see what they're seeing.
"It's...better." I shoot her a look. So much for that honesty I've been working on. "Sorry. I'm not an artist, all I know is that I liked what you used to paint, and I know you can't do that anymore. This just isn't up my alley, so I don't see a real difference. Jimmy Jam, help me out."
He stands, silently, for what seems like hours, but surely was less than a minute. "Well, I like that you're going more abstract. It's more suited to your situation. But there's no structure to it, nothing holding it together." He goes on about lines and form, but I'm kind of lost. I never was into abstract art, but I fear it’s my only option at this point. "But...you should keep at it. I think you'll get there."
This is surprising, and I wonder if he's pulling my leg. "Seriously? You're not just putting me on."
"It's rough, raw, but it does have potential." He turns to me and sounds more serious than I've known him to be. "Love, you're holding back. There's something here, but you're afraid to own it. If you want success, it's not gonna just happen. You have to reach out and grab it."
I smile, the first time I can recall doing so in some time. I glance at Jules, and I think I can see her rolling her eyes. She knows how I feel about him. And he just called me "Love."
----------
Present Day
So here I am now, many months later, reaching out and grabbing that success that James alluded to. Except it's not through selling my paintings, since I haven't been able to move a single one. Instead, I'm about to reach out and grab some jewelry, tech, and cash. Somehow, I don't think that's what he meant.
As I sit here crouched across the street from the house of my next target, waiting for her company to leave, I think about what led me to this point. Despite their encouragement, I still haven't been able to discern enough detail in my paints to create anything coherent. James insists that I'm using my blindness as a crutch, and even Jules says she thinks I'm doing better, and just need to keep at it. At least I have that job down at the animal shelter to pay the bills. Little do they know it was only volunteer work at first, and even now only pays a fraction of what I need to cover my rent and everything else. But it got them off my back a bit, and I do enjoy it.
For awhile, I didn't see any light at the end of the tunnel, and was pretty depressed. I would even snap at my friends on occasion, which is so not like me. They're great, though, and haven't given up on me yet, even after I'd given up on myself a few times.
During one of those low points, I decided I needed to get out of the house, go for a walk. It was then that I noticed a woman enter her home, and not lock her door. I thought it odd that she was so careless, risking someone breaking in. It didn't take long for the thought to pop into my head that I could be that someone. The mere idea of it made me feel even worse than I was already feeling about myself, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The devil on my shoulder started winning.
For weeks, I worked up the courage to follow through. I basically stalked the poor woman and became really good at hiding. I learned her routine to the finest detail before I made my move. I also learned a lot about myself that day. As the daughter of immigrant students from Mumbai, one who would go on to be a doctor, the other a lawyer, they expected big things from me, and so did I. I did well enough in school, but never excelled in any particular area, other than the arts, which they felt was simply a hobby, a creative outlet that couldn't support me. I miss them, but I'm glad they're not here to see me now. I always hated it when they were right.
After that first heist, I swore I would pay her back somehow, make it right. I had no idea how, but I thought of it as more of a loan, borrowing, instead of what it was. I was a common thief, but denial is a pretty powerful thing.
In just a few months, I’ve gone from denial and regret to trailing a treacherous man who makes my heists even easier. The man in the van has led me to a few easy scores, when I’ve been walking the neighborhood and saw his van approach. The angel on my shoulder insists I foil his plans to take advantage of another young successful woman. The devil on my other shoulder tells me I need him, to help keep me from getting evicted.
I didn’t see his van tonight, so I settled on another house I’d been watching for weeks. Since it’s pretty late, I was hoping she’d already be in bed, but instead, she was lying on the couch, her male friend on top of her. So I averted my eyes and waited. Now that I look again, her companion is...cleaning? He's looking around, as though he's lost something, then wipes the floor again. She hasn’t moved this whole time, so I start to wonder if this is the man with the van after all. Now that I've seen him twice, I should be able to recognize...no, this one's taller, lanky, and he's got a bit of a limp. Definitely not him. Still, something seems off.
He appears ready to leave, so I duck down again, to ensure he doesn't spot me on his way out. The devil on my shoulder nags me to study him as he leaves, could be important. Since I couldn't see this man’s face even if he was standing right before me, I have to rely on his body shape, learn every contour and curve, the shape of his skull, his gait. It's surprising how much you can identify people without seeing their face, though it's not one hundred percent reliable.
Once he's turned the corner, I check the girl, and she still hasn’t moved. Probably fell asleep, says the devil on my shoulder, so I slip on my gloves and sneak into the house. Break in is more like it, as this one's locked the door behind him. Good thing I've been brushing up on my lock-picking skills. I start casing the joint (I heard that term on some cop show once), but as I glance through the walls, into the living room, I notice something I hadn’t earlier.
I reach the end of the hallway and calm my breathing. I'll need to approach slowly, so I don't…Oh God. Oh God!
Frozen again, I try to process what I'm seeing, try convincing myself that it's not true. But it's right there in front of me: her body, lying lifeless on the couch, naked...and her arms, they're...gone. No, not gone. I spot them…on the other side of the room. The position of her corpse...it can't be, but I think...did he have sex with her after she was dead? What did she do to deserve this? I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I crumble to the floor.
Nothing in my life has prepared me for this... this horror, this depravity. I can't handle this, can't stay here, certainly can't take anything from this poor soul. The devil on my shoulder asks why not, but the angel on my other tells him to go to hell. I've pitied myself for so long, it's the first time I've truly felt worse for someone else. Tomorrow, her family and friends will learn what happened here, and they'll be devastated. Sometimes, I don't want to live on this planet
anymore.
I bawl for what seems like an eternity, long past the point where my eyes can no longer produce tears, and my throat is dry. There's nothing I can do for her, and the longer I stay, the more danger I put myself in. I wipe the drying tears from my face, pick myself up from the bloody floor, and leave. At a nearby strip mall, I find a payphone, call 911, and report a strange man leaving her house with blood on his hands. At least she won't stay like that for long. At least she'll be at peace soon. I can't say the same for myself.
Chapter 12
Earlier That Evening
Takehiko
At least I will be at peace soon. I cannot say the same for her. It is strange, how their terror becomes my calm. I never used to believe in the yin and yang duality of things, but here it is, on full display, as it has been since soon after I began my new career. She is silent, I speak. She grows worried, I become serene. She gives, I take.
I have become most efficient at this dance, so much so that I can predict it, watch it play out in my head, mere minutes before it commences. A knock on the door. A friendly smile, reciprocated. An apology for calling at such a late hour. A thin explanation that it could not be helped, gas leaks are not to be taken lightly. A trusting nod of understanding. A door opened wider, allowing me in. Only once was I asked to return the following morning, which I promised to do, after cautioning her not to use her oven or stovetop for the evening. I did not risk returning, on the chance that she called the gas company to confirm.
On most occasions, though, they are far too trusting, and I am inside. Then I look around, searching for any sign of company, an unexpected guest for the evening. Usually there is none, but once, a surprise visit by a sister foiled my plans. I was discreet enough to finish my "work" before uneventfully making my exit. This time, though, there is no second glass or plate at the dinner table, no other lights on in the home. My lucky night. I still scan for alternate exits, just in case of surprise. A good former project manager is always prepared for all contingencies.
The Ripper of Blossom Valley Page 10