Even Though

Ridley Jack

I remember the first time I saw him. There wasn’t anything spectacular about him. He had a floppy mess of brown hair with strangely milky blue-green eyes, but his smile made you forget all that. He had a straight, slender nose, and a pierced eyebrow, but his smile made you forget that it was a pink barbell. His clothes were all wrong; baggy and torn and ugly, but that smile of his made you forget, that, too. His smile could make you forget anything.

I don’t think he saw me. Actually, I know for a fact he didn’t see me, but I don’t begrudge him it. It wasn’t his fault.

---

“I love you,” he murmured against my hair, stroking my back.

I hugged him tighter, not willing to let go. I wanted this moment to last forever. Nothing could take this feeling away, nothing.

“More than you could ever imagine.”

---

I watched him laugh at my stumbling attempts to describe the beautiful sunset before us, feeling miserable.

How could he see if I couldn’t describe it to him? How come I couldn’t put into words the way the beautiful shades of pink streaked into orange into purple into pink again before fading into the deepest, truest blue? How did you describe the clouds that hovered, trying to catch the last rays of light before darkness fell upon my world, too? How did you make a blind man see?

“It’s alright, honey,” he consoled.

---

“It’s not your fault,” he explained patiently again. “Honey, it’s not your fault. It could have happened to anybody.”

“But it didn’t! It happened to you! It’s not fair!” I wailed, inconsolable.

“Better me than somebody else. I’ve found someone to love, to cherish, so share my life with,” he whispered intensely.

“But why?” I whispered back, tears streaking down my face. I wiped at them ineffectively.

“Oh, honey, don’t cry,” he sighed, gathering me in his warm arms once more.

Even if he couldn’t see, he was never blind.

“I’m s-sorry!” I hiccupped.

“Shh,” he soothed.

I didn’t deserve this man.

“Please don’t,” I pleaded. “It’s risky! They said there might not be a chance it’ll work at all!”

“I have to,” he explained patiently.

He was always patient. Always caring. Always considerate.

“There has to be someone else! How can they do this to you? You’re sick! You’re blind!” I yelled desperately. “How can you be the best candidate?”

His open, kind, loving face closed. I sobbed harder.

“I’m sorry! Please, I’m sorry! Oh, don’t, please don’t do it!”

“I have to. I love you,” he kissed my hair, my forehead, my lips.

---

“Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die,” I chanted softly, clutching his hand tightly. “Oh, please don’t die! I need you!”

I continued my mantra, never letting go of his hand. I smoothed his hair back from his handsome face.

Why did he have to get sick? Why did he have to be the one to take the treatment that was now making him worse? There were others! Why did it have to be him?

“Hey,” he choked. “Don’t cry,” he said with his newly roughened voice.

I smiled through my tears. Even if he couldn’t see, he was never blind.

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“Don’t,” he started. He stopped, and I rushed to lift a glass of water to his lips. He swallowed, then tried again. “Stop wishing this was somebody else.”

“I can’t,” I replied forlornly. “Why you? You’re perfect!” I objected.

He gave a dry, hacking laugh. “Thank you, but I’m not. I’m blind, remember?”

“But you’re still perfect! You’re beautiful, you’re kind, and considerate, and I couldn’t live without you! Please, just—“ I stopped, unable to go on.

He groped for my other hand, and I gladly let him have it.

“I love you,” he whispered before closing his eyes.

“No! What are you doing? Wake up!” I pleaded inanely, tears streaming unheeded down my cheeks.

---

“Miss?” the doctor asked hesitantly.

My head snapped up and my eyes fastened on his, wanting the best but fearing the worst.

“He’s going to make it. It was a close call, though. He’s very lucky. This treatment was very chancy.”

Even though I was sitting, it felt like my knees would give out. It felt like my heart would burst with joy and more tears leaked out of my eyes, this time for happiness. He’d make it. He would live. He wouldn’t die.

I smiled tremulously.

“Thank you, doctor. Can I see him?”

“Yes, go right in.”

---

I drove him home a week later, chatting aimlessly. He was alive. He wasn’t well, but he was recovering. He was safe. He was alive.

There was a sharp corner up ahead, and I was too busy looking at his beautiful face to notice the semi-truck careening precariously around it. It had rained last night, and froze over, so the roads were slick. The truck wasn’t slowing down and I was going too fast, anxious to get home.

I didn’t notice any of it, though. He was alive, with me. We were together. He would live.

I noticed the truck when it was too late. We smashed head on and he caved in my little car. My blind man reached for my hand as I screamed our death. Even if he couldn’t see, he was never blind.

---

The medics found the wreckage of twisted metal and shattered glass. When they peeled back the metal they saw us, holding hands. They noted that the woman was smiling and the man’s eyes were open and he was looking at the woman with such love that the medics were moved into silence.

“Rest in peace,” the medic who first saw them murmured, unclasping their hands to lift them out of the wasted debris.

---

Yes, I know, angst and death, but that’s just the way I was feeling when I wrote it. I really tried to write something happy and fluffy and useless, but as you can see, it didn’t work. Besides, I look at this as a writing exercise.

wail no one reviewed my other story, Quiet Confrontations! I know it’s not the best, and also not like my other ones, but I was rather proud of it…