There is no easily explicable reason for why I am unutterably attracted to his weakness. His blindness is beautiful; in the way it forces him to see the world in sound and smell and taste and feel. Despite the fact it means he probably has a radically different picture of reality. His twisted feet do not allow him to walk. Although multiple surgeries have been considered, he’s never feeling up to going under; going through with them. Miraculously, Lane’s hands remained almost perfect regardless of the accident.
I smile as I caress the smooth imperfections of his jawbone, where the flames devoured his face for more than a minute when they couldn’t get him out of the car. He knows that I’m in love with him. I’m sure he must know. Though I’ve made no advances on the beautifully tragic man, he can hear the sound of honey in my voice and the way I walk into his room as gently as though every footstep crushes buttercups. Lane, he knows everything.
“Do blind people dream?” I ask as his eyelashes flutter open to reveal opaque corneas, pale like crushed glass and just as impossible to see through.
“Sometimes,” Lane answers, a smirk on his face, “But I haven’t always been blind, so my answer isn’t necessarily true for the rest of the sightless in this world or the next.”
“Do you only dream about your past?” I wonder, “Can you picture things you never seen before with the images you have?”
“Sometimes. Nothing is certain. I dream about my past but also about my future. The latter being dreams of enormous black holes,” Lane replies with a sincere smile on his face. Nothing ever seems to make him bitter. I love that.
Raising his pale, thin arms above his head, he stretches and yawns.
“It always feels good to yawn,” Lane murmurs, “One pleasure I can’t be denied of short of killing me.”
I turn from Lane’s nightstand with a cup of pills and a glass of water to study his face. Sometimes, I wonder if he’d rather be dead. But I don’t have the courage to ask him that question. Already he has answered every question I’ve been brave enough to voice.
Ready for routine, Lane extends his hand and takes the pills, then the water with the other. One by one the capsules disappear into his mouth, each with a gulp of water. How anyone could fear this man I do not understand.
Actually, that’s not completely true. I can see that most people fear what they are unfamiliar with. No one understands why his skin is stretched oddly across his gaunt cheekbones and his useless eyes appear to have been drained of their previous blue. Very few know the story of his scars, like the one clinging to the corner of his mouth, pulling the flesh taut across the side of his disfigured countenance. Only I know that it took weeks for him to heal after the three operations that pulled the torn nerves and muscles of his grin back together. But when I look at him, all I see is beauty in the strength he has to keep living.
As for Lane’s parents, they’re afraid. He hasn’t spoken to them since the crash. To them, he is dead.