Second Sight

        The man stood in the alleyway, sheets of rain cascading over him. It soaked him to the marrow, instilling a cold, dank feeling. In contrast, the fresh scent of the storm gave new life to the typically stale scent of the city. Exhaust crept into his nostrils every few minutes as a car whizzed by on the street. Nearer still he could hear the uneven pattering of the droplets on umbrellas of passersby, and he called out to them.

        "Excuse me! Could you help me...please?"

        It took a few tries, but at last someone did stop. He was a younger man, perhaps a file clerk or an intern at a large office. A cheap briefcase slapped against his leg as he walked. Clearly it was not a faithful companion to the man, because the rhythm with which its dull thuds came was irregular and unpracticed. It had a hollow sound as though it contained little: it was just a shell to provide an appearance of importance. In his other hand the young man carried a standard-sized umbrella that kept him dry down to the knees where the rain bounced up from the street and soaked the bottoms of his pants; they made a distinct squishing sound as he walked. The squishing stopped as he stood looking down the alleyway at the older, gruff-looking man who had called out. He was apparently homeless, dressed in a tattered old coat and holding himself in a submissive hunch, his face turned toward the ground.

        "What do you need, sir?" the young man inquired.

        "I...I dropped my glasses somewhere, and I can't seem to find them..." The older man bent over and began feeling around on the ground. He was such a pitiful sight, dripping wet and scrambling about on the ground; the younger man could not help but get down there with him. He didn't see any glasses on the ground and hoped that he had not stepped on them. The homeless man began humming an eerie tune, still scrambling about on the wet pavement. He moved discreetly closer and closer, and at last he grabbed the Good Samaritan's shoulder, causing the young man to start and jerk his head toward the vagrant. Their eyes met, and the vagabond's stark white spheres bored into the soul of the young man. The humming stopped.

        "You have what I want..."

        With a swift motion of his fist, the homeless man struck the young man down. His body hit the ground with a dull thud and a moan as he slipped into unconsciousness. The blind man dragged him back further into the alley behind a dumpster. He drew a knife from somewhere within his ragged old coat, raised it up over his head, and thrust the blade deep into the man's chest. He pulled it out with a heave and then placed his fingers beneath his victim's eyes and sliced away the gelatinous orbs. As he squeezed them in his palm, a savage euphoric rush engulfed him; it was a wave of satisfaction, completion. He had taken what they all had, that which he did not: the gift of sight


    Weeks later on the other side of the city, the blind man sat outside of a corner store, dark glasses perched atop his nose, cackling at the people walking by. "Hey, help an old blind man?" He rattled his tin cup, causing the few coins inside to clank with a most agitating clamor. "Come on now! Help the less fortunate!" His raspy growl was a little intimidating, but to the average pedestrian he was a rather heart-rending sight. A few pennies dropped into the cup with a pitiful clink.

        "There you go, sir," said the coins' patron.

        "Bah! Is that all you can spare? You don't know what I go through!" He rattled the cup around some more, but the benefactor, with a disgusted scoff, just turned and walked away. "Ingrates..." the blind man muttered, “They don't know how good they have it..." He got up from the ledge where he was sitting out front of a corner store. His thin white cane swung out into the sidewalk, hitting a young girl who was walking by with her older brother. Her shriek was piercing, even though he probably had not hit her very hard. She began to bawl, and her brother yelled, "Hey Mister! What did you do that for?!"

        "She'll get over it, kid. Just shut her up..." The man's face contorted in pain as the girl's wailing continued. He walked away, waving his cane haphazardly on the ground in front of him, not caring if he tripped anyone in his search for obstacles that could bring him crashing down to the hard pavement. He had not fallen in a while, but previous incidents had proven it to be an extremely unpleasant experience. Rarely anyone offered to help him up, and anyone that did offer didn't really care about him: they just wanted him out of the way. Throughout his life he had been nothing but a burden to his family, to his friends, to society. But not much of that was left anymore, because most of all he was a burden to himself.

        A cold wind swept through the streets as he approached the steps of the city courthouse. It was a most forbidding structure with a solemn, formal façade; it stood in stark contrast to the other historic buildings of the block which provided a greater measure of warmth. The granite steps were always cold and hard, and the columns were such a nuisance. Too many times he had bruised a shoulder or stubbed a toe on the sentinels which crowded around the building, keeping justice inside its doors and chaos outside to run rampant in the city.

        The clock in its tower high above began to sound the noon bells. Before it finished, the doors of the courthouse opened, unleashing a flood of employees searching for a wholesome lunch. The blind man skittered out of the way: the minions of justice would surely knock him down if he did not watch out for himself. "Hypocrites," he muttered to himself. "They work for order and justice, but outside of the workplace they scatter like scared ants because they know that what they do means nothing. The rest of us are still out on the streets living with all the problems that they are too high above to care anything about." He slipped in through one of the large wooden doors, right past the security station as the guard switched shifts: countless days he had sat outside the doors and listened as the morning guard was the first to leave, and the afternoon guard manned his post after the lunch rush had fled. His cane tapped quietly across the marble floor of the centuries-old rotunda. The tapping dulled as he stepped onto the plush carpeting of the central hallway. For a moment he thought he heard footsteps behind him; he ducked into a doorway to listen. It was nothing: he was just paranoid. Stepping back out into the hallway, he continued up the hall, turned right and walked until he reached the men’s restroom, which was labeled most considerately in Braille on the door.

        The air was sour with disinfectant spray and urine, and it stung his nostrils, causing his sightless-eyes to water. He set his cane up against the sink and went about relieving himself. When he was finished, he took his time washing his hands, humming that peculiar favorite tune of his. The door screeched open behind him. A bright and cheery tune had entered the room with that oil-less shriek. The discord between the two was striking, and both stopped after a moment. The blind man continued to wash his hands as his new companion used the lavatory. He took his time drying them, listening as the toilet flushed and the stall door opened. Heavy steps approached the center sink: by the way he moved, he was most likely a portly man, probably middle-aged and wearing a standard business suit. He had a light aroma of cologne, not overbearing like some, but rather a pleasant, inviting smell. He greeted the blind man with a pleasant, “Good afternoon.”

        The blind man mumbled a “Hello,” in response as he started out of the restroom. He had almost reached the door when he slipped and fell onto the hard, tiled floor, letting out a groan. The portly man had just finished drying his hands and rushed over to help the blind man.

        “Are you all right, sir?” he asked, taking the blind man’s arm and helping him to his feet.

        “Yes, I’m fine…but you didn’t really have to do that.” A rapid strike between the portly man’s shoulder blades sent him down, but he was not unconscious. He slid out of the way as the blind man drew his knife, grabbing the thin white cane that lay on the floor nearby. The blind man jabbed desperately at the air as the large man pulled himself backward across the floor, swatting at the blind man with the cane and shouting for help. Finally, the blade sliced into his side, causing him to gasp in pain. The blind man roared with satisfaction and leaped at his victim, poised to slit his throat.

        “Why?!”

        The blade hovered on the brink of slashing through the man’s flesh.

        “Why are you doing this?” He had gotten his attacker’s attention. “I was only trying to help you!”

        “Liar!” the blind man snarled. “No one cares! What makes you any different?”

        “Surely, you must have someone who cares about you…no one can live without love and compassion. It would be a most unbearable fate!”

        He had had people who had cared about him once, but he had chased them all away with his anger and self-pity. He had not wanted a job or a family; he had chosen to be alone and to live on the streets. He had not wanted anyone’s sympathy; greed had over taken him, driving him to desire only the vision that everyone else had. His rage had made him blind to all the good in life and to all the evil that he had become. It had seemed so natural, as it had gone unquestioned for far too long, consuming him. It was truly unbearable.

        But there was nothing he could do about it. “It’s too late for me now, and it’s too late for you, too.”

        The knife drew a crimson line along the man’s throat, but it cut no deeper, for he gasped again: “It’s never too late to turn back, to atone!”

        It wasn’t too late to finish the task, either. Almost everyone was still out to lunch, and they rarely thought to check within their own doors, so by the time the body was discovered, he would be blocks away. No one would ever find him. He could go on killing, or stop if he wanted: it didn’t matter because he always got away.

        But this time was different. Of all those he had deprived of sight and life, none had ever asked why -- none had ever had the chance. This victim had pushed the blind man to look at himself, to see what a monster he had become. Perhaps it was time to end the hatred.

        Tears fell from his useless, ghostly white eyes as he hurled his knife across the room. “Go…” he sniveled, “I’m…I’m sorry…and thank you…”

        The portly man got up as quickly as he could from the small pool of blood which had oozed out of the gash in his side, limping over to the door and shouting down the corridor for security.

        The blind man curled up in the corner of the room, weeping with his face in his bloody hands. His eyes began to sting terribly, and he moaned in agony. He blinked, realizing that the tears had become hotter, thicker: it was blood. His eyes throbbed more, and then began to tingle. He blinked a few more times, as an indescribable feeling came over him. It was one of pure joy and ecstasy, stronger than any natural feeling, so strong that he could do nothing but laugh.

        He could see.


        Months later, the man sat in his prison cell, staring at the concrete wall with the fascination of a child. His crimson eyes -- for which he had been known in court -- examined the nooks and crannies that splintered the solid gray blocks. He had not spoken a word since that final day of agony; whether it was a physical affliction or a mental inability, he was not sure. He did know, however, that he had been granted vision. But that did not matter nearly as much to him as all the lives that he had taken while searching for his prize. He had signed a confession for each murder, and he sat for hours each day remembering his victims’ last moments, regretting the pain that he had inflicted upon them. Though he had never seen them, their faces haunted him in sleep; their voices screamed his name, cursed him. He had finally found sight, but he now realized that the price had been far too high.


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