How Dreary [Open]

I was out on my own, a common thing with me, trying to get away from the sound of my father. My mother believes I'm dead, and I don't blame her. I may as well have died all those years ago because I am just a fragment of who I used to be, who I could have been. I don't envy my mother, because she has to deal with my father every day while I live alone except for the days he visits me. I am his pet, but he treats me like an outdoor cat and so I am allowed to wander as long as he can scoop me up and shovel me back inside for the night. My cat flap is locked right after my food bowl is shoved through the door.

Through my frequent explorations, I have come to know this part of the woods very well. Around here I usually don't bother with my glasses and instead wear a bandage around my eyes, since no one comes here - my father sees to that. On the days I plan to go farther than this short jaunt around the trees I then shield my eyes from the world with something a little less conspicuous. The bark of L9U10 is the same as ever under my fingers, crumbling under the light pressure that I put on it in trying to maintain my balance on a root. I label the trees by how many steps from my front door they are, so that I know where they are. It makes it easier to keep from running into them and breaking my nose - something I had done more times than I should have.

My little shack of despair in luckily not in a dense part of the woods, but there are more than enough trees. Every time a new plant grows or a rock is moved I usually end up tripping over it. The further I venture from my house the less I know the area, and as such I trip more and more often. Still, the outside is much nicer than my little hut because at least there I don't have to breathe in the dust and stale air that seems to permanently occupy the space. When outside I feel more free, though I will never be able to see the greens and browns of the forest around me. I can still smell the air, and I can hear the animals. There are worse places my father could have stuck me - like keeping me strapped to that damned table to be prodded at for the rest of my life. I am done being his lab rat, though that's all he ever treats me as.

I can't get away from this place either because what he did to me causes everyone I meet to drive me off like I am some demon. Perhaps that is what he has made me into for not one person, not a single one, has taken me for anything but that. It is all alright when I am simply a blind boy, but if I were to even hint at the truth behind my blindness then I am shunned and spurned, fled from and ultimately left with nothing but my home and my cat food. I am the mangy stray everyone pities but no one wants to love. My ear is torn and my fur is ragged, I have fleas and ticks, some suspect I have rabies. Who would ever go near an abomination like me?

And so I stay in my forest, keeping track of trees in case they move in the night like some insane person. My food is handed to me through a flap in the door and I am a tom cat who is too big for his box.

I turn my back to L9U10, pressing my spine hard against its trunk so that the support and pain it brings is all that I feel. The back of my head collides with the tree and I am dizzy for a moment. Around me is the sound of the forest and I don't bother to close my eyes because it makes no difference. The bandage is both rough and soft on my face, catching on imperfections in my skin even as it protects my eyes from the world - or more so the world from my eyes. I am alone, as always, and I enjoy it. The air is clear as I breathe in, clear in a way it can only be in nature. It's almost nice here.

Then I hear something and I know that I am actually not alone, not anymore. I know the sounds of nature and that did not belong. My head remains against the tree because I listen, I do not look. I wait for whatever - or more likely, whoever - to come closer. I may be a blind boy, but this is my part of the woods.