"Lucia, are you listening?" he repeats again, after clearing his throat.
"Yes," I simply reply.
"Why don't you look at me when I talk to you?"
"I can't see! What difference does it make where I'm facing?" I snap, turning toward the sound when I hear him shift his weight. The awkwardness radiating from him and his gaze on my fake eyes are almost tangible. They make my cheeks heat up. The bitterness in my voice has been increasing since the last failed operation, fifth already, and I fail to swallow my words in time. Again.
I take a deep breath and turn away, but my focus is on the sounds he makes. Small movements, rustling of clothes
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... you keep taking me to Ripperdoc, helping me out and I..." my voice trails off.
"I understand, don't worry about it," his voice retreats, and I can tell from the echo that he's moving towards the kitchen. Did he sound sad? I cannot tell for sure, the frustration makes everything sound sad.
I dread what he'll say when he sees the fridge. All my money has been going into finding implants that work, that stay in without pain. I'm so close to giving up that I'm afraid to take a break and save some money.
The cupboards open and close, then running water, and finally the click of the kettle. Why doesn't he say anything? I feel the familiar sting, but no tears come out. Can't anymore, after the second failed operation.
As the sharp noise of the heating water rises, I lose all sense of space and where he is. Maybe he left? Got annoyed at me and just went away? Swallowing doesn't help with the anxiety, it rises quickly to my throat and the sting in my eyes worsens.
Then the water settles, and I can hear humming in the kitchen. The anxiety evaporates instantly. The scent of chamomile wafts into the room with the out-of-tune melody, and the sting in my eyes turns different. I didn't have any chamomile. He wasn't looking for anything, he was stocking the kitchen. Again.
I feel the air shift, and more of the scent enters the room as he comes back from the kitchen. The heat radiating from the mug passes close by and settles on the table in front of me with a soft thud.
"Here's some tea, and there's food in the fridge. Please take it easy for a couple of days, okay? I'll come visit again as soon as I can."
Trying to estimate where he is standing, I extend my hand out toward the voice. His hand comes to meet mine, slightly from the left. Such a small thing, but it hurts so much. Why do I have to miss when I reach for people in the dark?
He squeezes my hand, then guides it to the handle of the mug so I know where it is. I let out a shaky breath and nod. He is leaving.
"I'll be alright. I'll see you in a couple of days," the lie slips easily.
"Thank you, again. I don't know what I'd do without you," the truth is harder to voice.
He let's out a small "Mmm", a final squeeze, and then he's gone. I sit alone in the dark for a while, letting the tea cool down. There are some muted sounds from outside, but nothing I want to pay attention to. The apartment feels even smaller than it really is, without the voice of someone moving around. Almost like the chair, the table and the mug are the only things in the world.
It becomes too much. I have to get out of here.
I promised to take it easy, but I can't bear the loneliness. Stumbling out of the apartment and into the cacophony of the streets, I realize how I prefer the claustrophobic wall of noise over the empty infinity of silence.
The stares are there, though, and I can make out some whispers. 'Purist freak', 'why doesn't she get augments'. I try to ignore them and focus on the background noises, keeping close to the walls. The constant stream of footsteps starts to blend in with other sounds. The screech of a tire, the shout of someone. It all mixes together into a comforting blanket.
It takes a moment before I realize I'm standing in the doorway of the Ripperdoc again. Maybe I've been here so many times already that it's the most familiar route to me. Something I already travel almost unconsciously.
I hesitate.
My account is already way too deep in the red. There's no way for someone without an eyesight pay it all back. The Ripperdoc knows it too, and I'm dreading the day they decide to collect. No one gives this much credit without a catch.
Frozen, anxious, I stand at the door. Somehow this time, the sixth time, feels different.
I think back to my childhood and the teenage years. Sounds, smells, tastes, touches. No sights.
The hesitation leaves me and I step through the door. The soundscape changes. Endless noise turns into a quiet hum of the... what is that sound? It's not the machines I'm familiar with.
The Ripperdoc greets me but I just mutter something in reply, heading towards the sound. It's like a pulse. I sense something I've never sensed before. Like something is trying to break through the dark shroud I've been inside, burning at the veil.
My fingers close around a small vial at the back of a shelf. The container is cold, dusty. Forgotten.
“What is this?” leaves my mouth, though somehow I already know.
“They’re eyes, but you don’t want them. Nobody does. There’s something wrong with them,” the Ripperdoc replies dismissively. “How did you even find them on the shelf?”
My throat tightens, heart hammers in my chest. A taste of blood rushes to my mouth. I barely hear anything but the voice from the vial. He can't deny me this.
“I do want them. Please,” I rush to plead.
“Alright, I’m not going to say no to your ebucks, but I’m also not buying them back. Are you sure?” he sounds surprised by my intensity. "You'll owe me 13,080 eb after this. That okay?"
"Yes."
