Blinded

Chapter 2

Brian lay motionless in his hospital bed staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes, or rather staring into the blackness that continually surrounded him. So began his third day of blindness, or the fifth if you counted the two days he was in a coma.

He could hear sounds from the hallway, early morning sounds that indicated they would be in for morning rounds soon. He wondered what Dr. Hagen would have found out. Maybe they could restore his sight. He sure as fuck hoped so.

He listened to the sounds trying to distinguish one from the other. He could hear faint voices, the squeaky wheel on a cart, the bing of an elevator door. He was becoming more and more adept at identifying the mundane sounds around him, a skill that he had little desire to develop.

Fuck! He knew there was blood behind his eyes putting pressure on the optic nerve. He also knew there was swelling, but they had told him that he might, no should, regain his sight, as the blood drained away and the pressure was relieved. He had to believe that would happen. But when? He didn't know how much more of this he could stand.

"Mr. Kinney?"

Brian jumped. He was getting good at knowing when people approached but he hadn't heard this one at all. "Yes? Who is it?"

"It's Dr. Hagen."

"Oh, you're back. Did you find a way to help me?" Brian asked hopefully.

"I think so. I've arranged to have you transferred to the rehab center attached to the hospital. They'll be able to teach you how to be more self-sufficient."

"But … but … I thought you were going to help me get my sight back."

"I told you that we had to wait. There's nothing I can do in the meantime, and you don't really need fulltime hospital care at the moment. You need help living with your blindness," the doctor explained carefully.

"No!" Brian protested. "I don't want to learn to live with my fucking blindness. I want you to fucking get rid of it!"

"That's not possible," the doctor said slowly.

"Then I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay here until I'm better."

"I realize it's frightening to be moved to new surroundings," the doctor stated sensing Brian's fear. "But there's nothing more we can do for you here. We need this bed for ill or injured patients."

"But I am injured. I'm fucking blind! Do something about that before you send me away." Brian felt tears welling up and panic gnawing at his gut. "Please!" he begged.

"That's what I'm trying to do, Mr. Kinney," the doctor told him calmly. "Rehab will train you to look after yourself and how to get around. When you are self-sufficient, you will be able to go home."

"But I'm blind," Brian said in disbelief. "I can't go home."

"Mr. Kinney, your injuries are healing and your sight will come back, but it's going to take time."

"How much time?" Brian demanded. "Another day? A week? I can't fucking stand this!"

"Mr. Kinney," the doctor sighed. "I've told you that I can't give you a specific time line. I don't know how long it will take, but most likely weeks rather than days."

"Weeks?" Brian moaned.

"I don't want to give you false hope. It could even be months. Your sight should return when the optic nerve has a chance to recover."

"Months!" Brian gasped. "No!"

"Right now you need to learn how to take care of yourself. The orderly will be in first thing in the morning to move you over to rehab."

"Doc?" Brian sighed.

"Yes, Mr. Kinney," the doctor said in a slightly exasperated voice.

Brian could tell he was already halfway out of the room. "Couldn't you just fucking shoot me now and be done with it?"

"That's not the prescribed medical treatment for your condition."

Brian shook his head and whispered, "Fuck!", but he could tell from the silence that the doctor had already left the room.

-----

Brian heard a rustle of movement and knew that someone had entered his room. "Who's there?" he demanded.

"Mr. Kinney, I'm Detective Carver," a male voice said.

"Detective, as in police?"

"Yes. I need to talk to you about what happened."

"You mean what put me in the hospital and made me … blind?" Brian asked with disdain. The fucking police had failed to protect him and now they had come around to survey the results of their piss poor labors.

"I heard that you had lost your sight … temporarily."

"Yeah … temporarily," Brian snarled.

"Do you remember what happened that night?" the detective asked trying to get this interview back on track.

"Not really."

"Tell me what you do remember."

"I was walking to Woody's on Liberty Avenue."

"What's Woody's?"

Brian sighed. "It's a gay bar," Brian stated waiting to see what kind of homophobic asshole he was dealing with.

"What time of night would that have been?" the detective asked seemingly unfazed by Brian's statement.

"About eleven."

"You were alone?"

"Yes."

"What do you remember about your attack?"

"I had taken a shortcut through an alley. I was almost to Liberty when something hit me in the head."

"Anything else?"

"I think they rifled through my pockets," Brian said trying to remember.

"You had no wallet or ID when we found you. Did you have much money, credit cards?"

"I think there was probably about $200 in cash and several credit cards."

"Have you cancelled the cards?"

"Fuck, no! I haven't done anything. I'm fucking blind."

"Don't worry, Mr. Kinney. Now that we know who you are we'll track any use of the cards. That may lead us to your attacker."

"So I shouldn't cancel them?"

"Yes, you should, as soon as possible, but they may still try to use them."

"Okay."

"At this point we're treating this as a mugging, but … you wouldn't have any enemies, would you?"

"You think someone tried to kill me?" Brian asked horrified.

"I'm not saying that. We think it was probably a mugging, but the level of violence in the attack on you is unusual."

Brian thought about people who might hate him. There were some disgruntled tricks especially one from a few weeks ago, but they wouldn't attack him. No one had ever done that. "I can't think of anyone who would hate me enough to do this to me."

"Okay, Mr. Kinney, if I find out anything, I'll give you a call. If you remember anything else, call me. I'll leave my card on the nightstand."

Brian heard some rustling and knew the cop was gone. "Yeah, I'll be sure to call you," Brian muttered to himself. "Like I can read your fucking card!"

-----

Brian waited for the rest of the day for something to happen, but nothing did. Carol helped him with his meals. He debated about calling Michael. It would be nice to hear a familiar voice, even if he couldn't see the face. He wondered what he could do about his credit cards. All the information was at the loft. Michael could get that for him. But he really didn't want anybody to know what had happened. Maybe the blindness would go away in a day or two.

Then he realized that if he called Cynthia all his credit card information was on his computer and she could cancel them for him. He got Carol to help him place the call and told Cynthia the passwords she would need. She wanted to know where he was and what was going on, but he merely told her that his wallet had been stolen but he was all right. She finally agreed to do what he asked. He got off the phone without revealing anything about his condition.

The day drifted away into nothingness. Brian wondered if all his days would be like this from now on. He had nothing to do, nothing he wanted to do, except see. Carol helped him with meals and the toilet. He was starting to feel a little better. The pain in his ribs was subsiding. He could breathe without it hurting. His knees were itchy which meant they were healing. Carol removed the bandages. He wondered what his face looked like, but he thought it was probably better that he couldn't see it.

Thankfully they told him it was night and he closed his eyes to sleep. He could feel the drop of liquid seep out of the corner of his eye and he brushed it away. What the fuck was he going to do? His sight had to come back soon. It just had to.

-----

The trip to the rehab facility only took a few minutes. Some unknown orderly pushed him in his wheelchair while he clutched the plastic bag that held his jacket and some toiletries. The morning nurse had helped him to shower. He could still do that even if he was blind. He just couldn't find his way out of the shower room or back to his bed. The nurse had helped him get dressed, saying that it was expected that he be clothed when he arrived at rehab. He wished Carol had been there to help him, but apparently she was off duty for a couple of days. Brian wished he could have seen her, no, make that, spoken to her one more time. She had been very nice to him. He wondered what kind of horrors awaited him in rehab.

All the way to rehab Brian had that nauseous feeling of movement without knowing where he was or what he might run into. When the orderly finally stopped the wheelchair, Brian breathed a sigh of relief.

"Here we are, Mr. Kinney," the orderly said as he set the brakes on the chair. "This is Janet. She'll look after you from now on." With that he was gone leaving Brian to fend for himself.

"Janet?" Brian asked when no one said anything to him.

"Just a minute," a female voice replied brusquely.

Brian waited uncertain what to do. "Janet?" he repeated when several minutes had passed.

"I told you to wait a minute. I'm filling out some forms for you."

Brian sat in silence. If he was going to Hell, as his mother so often predicted, he had a feeling rehab would be adequate preparation to get him acquainted with what he would encounter. Suddenly his chair lurched forward, and the female voice stated, "Let's get you to your room."

Brian came to halt after a few seconds. Nothing else happened. "Janet?" he said uncertainly, having no idea where he was.

"What?" she replied.

"Where am I?"

"You're in your room. I told you that's where I was taking you."

"What are you doing?"

"Checking that everything is set up for you."

Suddenly his bag of belongings was ripped from his arms. He hadn't realized how tight a death grip he had had on it until it was pulled away. He waited.

"There," Janet said. "Your coat is in the closet and your toiletries are in the bathroom."

"Thanks," Brian said weakly.

"Do you want to get in bed or sit up for awhile?" she asked.

"I'll sit up," Brian said hoping to be moved to a different chair.

"Stand up," she ordered. "Take three steps." He did as ordered. "Turn around and sit down." Brian extended his leg to be sure the chair was actually there. When the back of his leg could feel it, he sat down with a sigh. "Someone will be in to begin your therapy," Janet said.

"But … but, how do I call you if I need something."

"You won't need anything in the next few minutes, so you won't need to call me."

Brian felt the panic rising. She wouldn't just leave him there, all alone, in the dark, would she? "Janet?" he said. When there was no reply, he knew he was all alone. He sat still and waited.

Brian had no idea how long he was left sitting there. He was afraid to move, afraid he'd be lost forever and no one would ever find him. He could hear noises off in the distance, probably down the hall, but nobody came near him for what seemed liked hours. His heart beat rapidly and he wanted to cry. He did his best to keep it together. And still he waited.

"Mr. Kinney," a male voice said out of the darkness.

"Yes?" Brian managed to croak. His mouth was very dry and he hoped the fear in his voice didn't sound as evident to this man as it did to his own ears.

"My name is Martin Kimmelman. I'll be working with you on coping skills."

"Coping?" Brian asked feeling a little better that someone had finally come to help him.

"Coping with your blindness."

"Oh."

"Have you learned to do any things for yourself?"

Brian shook his head. He felt like such a baby, a failure. He had to learn everything all over again.

"Then let's start with the layout of the room," Martin said quietly.

Brian liked the kind, gentleness of his voice. "Okay," he said.

Martin came over to the chair and asked Brian to stand up. When Brian was standing Martin began describing what the room was like. It was basically square with the bathroom inserted in one corner. The chair Brian had been sitting in was beside the only window in the room. The bed was to the left of the chair and a chest of drawers to the right. The door to the room was almost directly opposite to the chair.

Once that had been laid out for Brian, Martin showed Brian how to hold his arm and he walked Brian from the chair to the bed counting the steps. They went from the bed to the bathroom door, from there to the main door of the room, then back to the bed. He then took Brian through all of the different distances again, this time always starting from the bed. Brian began to memorize the number of steps. Next Martin had Brian start from the bed, find the correct direction and walk to the bathroom door using the correct number of steps. Brian found he could do it all by himself.

"Now get yourself back," Martin told him.

Brian did an about face and returned to the side of the bed. "I did it," Brian said rather proud of his achievement.

"When you can't see, you have to rely on memory and your other senses," Martin said.

"I didn't want to do this. I'm waiting for my sight to come back," Brian felt compelled to tell him.

"I know. I've read your file, but there is no telling how long you'll have to live with the blindness. You might as well be self-sufficient."

"I guess," Brian admitted.

"Are you tired?" Martin asked.

"A little," Brian said.

"Why don't you lie down on the bed and rest for a bit. Lunch will be here in about a half hour. I'll come back and show you how to deal with food. You've done very well so far, Mr. Kinney."

"Thanks, but could you call me Brian?"

"Sure, Brian," Martin said. "I'll be back in a half hour."

Brian laid his head down on the pillow. Maybe he could do this after all. He was asleep in a minute.