Clarity

  Copyright © 2014 Loretta Lost

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of OkayCreations.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Clutching the wall for support, I slide down to collapse gracelessly on the stairs. What’s wrong with me? I stare forward into the darkness that is my world, gripping the edge of the cold metal step beneath me. I am having trouble breathing. My chest is heaving with short, abrupt gasps; I think I might be crying, but there are no tears staining my cheeks. I have no idea where I am. The dark has never frightened me, but now, staring into the infinite expanse of nothingness… I can’t help thinking about death. My mother’s death. My own death. Placing a hand on my chest, I try to mentally force my pounding heart to settle down.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Come on, Helen. You’re tough.

  They all said it would take time. They said that I should give myself time to grieve and get past this. But as usual, I rushed in headfirst, thinking that I was stronger than everyone. I conquer such huge obstacles on a daily basis. What’s one more? Of course, I was wrong. I’m always wrong, lately.

  “Miss, are you okay?” asks a gentle male voice.

  I lift my head at the sound, surprised that I hadn’t heard this man approach. He sounds young and innocent—there is genuine concern in his tone. Of course, my tears would choose now to start spilling over. I completely lose all grip on my resolve as my body begins to shake with sobs. I gasp and clutch my knees, trying to fight against my misery.

  Just breathe in. Breathe out. You can handle this. You can handle anything.

  I feel a large, warm hand resting on my shoulder, and it’s instantly comforting. Why is this stranger being so kind to me? It only makes me cry harder. I have been holding on for so long, and keeping this all inside. I just need to be weak for one moment. Just one moment. There is a secret organ gathering pain like a balloon within my chest, and it has been threatening to explode for the longest time. I just need a little cry to let some of the pressure out, to deflate it and keep it from destroying my insides with a near-nuclear detonation.

  “What’s wrong?” the young man asks. “Can I help you? Anything. Anything at all.”

  “I’m just…” My voice sounds pitiful and wretched. I take a deep breath and try to speak again. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “You’re blind?” he asks me.

  I bite my lip and nod. I’m ashamed of the fact, and I generally try to navigate without using the collapsible white cane that rests tucked away within my backpack. It feels like a badge of disgrace, announcing my disability to the world. I don’t like being treated differently. I don’t like being considered abnormal.

  “What’s wrong?” he prods. “You look like someone died.”

  I try to resist, but another sob shakes my body. I am crying again. Just like that; just so easily. I don’t have time to mentally insult myself, or try to give myself a pep talk to be strong before I feel the stranger’s arms wrap around me.

  “Shh,” he says, holding me against his chest. “You’re okay.”

  I dissolve against him, completely vulnerable and hopeless. I am not usually this needy, but in this moment, I need to fall apart. I need to accept how brokenhearted I am before I can even try to mend. Just one moment. All I need is this one moment, and I can get back to being me.

  That’s enough, Helen, says my ever-cautious inner voice. Get it together. Stop. Stop now. Breathe!

  “Can I help you, honey?” he asks me again. “Anything I can do. Just say the word.”

  “I don’t know where I am,” I say again, in a small voice.

  “This is the engineering department,” he tells me. “Are you an engineer?”

  I release a burst of derisive laughter, and it cuts through my tears. “Do I look like an engineer? Gosh. I’m more lost than I thought.”

  He chuckles. “Let me help you,” he says softly, as he caresses my hand in a soothing manner. He slips my backpack off my shoulders, as if taking the entire weight of the world away from me. “C’mon! I’ll guide you wherever you need to go. You need to hold onto my elbow, right? Is that how it works?”

  “Yes,” I say, inspired by his infectious enthusiasm. “Thanks. My name is Helen, by the way.”

  “Helen,” he repeats, testing it on his tongue. “Helen. What a pretty name. It suits you. You’re such a pretty girl.”

  I smile and wipe my sleeve across my face to remove the moisture. “You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I accuse as I allow him to help me to my feet.

  “Is it working?” he asks.

  “Maybe a little,” I answer. I’m lying; it’s not working. But I do appreciate his efforts. I feel him take my hand and wrap it around his elbow. I am surprised by the size of the bicep that I am grasping. “Do all engineers hit the gym as much as you do?” I ask.

  “Only the ones on a football scholarship,” he says proudly.

  I force another smile. “That’s impressive. I’m a just a psychology major.”

  “Psych? Nice. Do you plan on being a doctor or something?” he asks.

  “No. I’m going to be a writer,” I tell him. “I just like to understand people. For some reason, I have a class in this building—but I never come here, so I’m not that familiar with the layout.”

  “It’s kind of tricky,” he tells me. “Even people with perfect eyesight get lost in this labyrinth. Here, I think I know where the psych class is. Let me take you there.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him faintly. I grip the man’s solid upper arm as he guides me off the stairs and through a pair of double doors. He walks at a comfortable pace as he leads me through the halls. Not so brisk that I have to powerwalk to keep up, and not so slow that I feel like a stupid child. I had been a little more than just physically lost, so it is reassuring to feel the strength and warmth radiating through the sleeve of his shirt.

  My fingers tighten around his elbow as we make some twists and turns through the building. I am so relieved to be with a competent guide; as prideful as I can be, it does make things easier to be able to rely on someone.

  After a few minutes of walking, the boy finally comes to a stop. “Here we are,” he says.

  I make a face in puzzlement. “I—I don’t hear anything. It’s so quiet. Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Sure. It’s just through this door.”

  Something in his voice gives me chills. My body shudders. I hear the door being unlocked, and there is only a deathly silence on the other side. Run, my inner voice tells me. Run! But it’s too late.

  Just as I’m turning away, a hand clamps over my mouth. I lift both of my hands to try to pry it off, but another hand fiercely clinches around my waist. The boy roughly drags me into the room. I try to scream, and violently push away with my legs, but I am held fast.

  “Be quiet,” he whispers. “No screaming, or I’ll rip your tongue out. I’m going to release you, but keep your mouth shut, okay?”

  I nod. The silence in the room is deafening. My skin is prickled by rising goose bumps, and my heart furiously pumps hot blood through my body. As soon as his hands release me, I swivel and smash my fist into his face. He roars in pain, and I fling my foot outward, letting my heel connect with his knee. Feeling his leg beginning to buckle and crumple, I quickly duck away from him and lunge for the door. Grasping the handle, I pull the door halfway open before I feel it being slammed shut. The boy grabs a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and uses it to smash my face against the door. I cry out at the sharp pain in my nose, and my lip splits open against my teeth. I taste a bitter, metallic liquid against my tongue. My head spins and
I grow dizzy. I feel my body being hauled away from the door and thrown to the ground amid boxes and other debris. I struggle to raise myself onto my elbows to fight against my assailant, but there is suddenly a heavy, crushing weight on top of me.

  A large hand clamps around my neck and squeezes. He is suffocating me.

  “I can make you feel better, Helen,” he says in a tender voice. “Shhh. Just relax. Relax and let me take care of you.” I feel his hand reaching down to slip under my skirt. “Relax and spread your legs.”

  “Are you insane?” I hiss, clawing at the hand he’s holding over my throat. He’s too strong. Tears flood my eyes once again. “I thought you were nice.”

  “I guess you missed one too many psychology classes, huh?” he says with a laugh. He leans down and puts his lips very close to my ear. “Just don’t worry, sweet thing. You can’t see me, so I’m not even really here. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “You monster!” I scream hoarsely, struggling against him. “How could you…”

  He removes his hand from my neck and hits me across the face. My already bloody lip is swollen and pulsating. I am afraid for my life. Maybe I should stop fighting and let him do whatever he intends to do? My sister and father need me, and I can’t die. It would destroy them. They’ve lost too much already. I can’t seem to stop sobbing. I think of my mother. Maybe I should fight with the two-hundred-pound football player, and hope that he kills me so that I can be with her? My mind is a mess. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this.

  “Think about calm ocean breezes,” the man on top of me says in a soothing voice. “Shhh. My sweet Helen. Think about soft waves of the ocean. Shhh. That’s all we are. Soft waves of the ocean.”

  His sadistic banter chills me to the bone. Why is this happening to me? Why is this happening to me now? Why, at my lowest moment, has the universe found a way to drag me down even further—into an even deeper pit of despair? Is this some kind of sick joke? I must be dreaming. This can’t really be happening.

  But his thumb and forefinger continue to press down painfully on either side of my windpipe. I gasp for breath as he steals the life away from me. This is very real.

  “Helen,” he coos in a singsong voice as he moves on top of my body. “Helen, Helen, Helen. Such a pretty name, for such a pretty girl. My sweet, sweet Helen. The things I’m going to do to you.”

  I am not sure what this man looks like, but I imagine that if I could see him, I would be staring up into the face of pure evil. Perhaps I should be thankful that I will never have to behold something so hideous. If I survive this, I inwardly promise myself, I will have to get stronger, somehow. I can never let something like this happen to me again.

  Three years later…

  Something does not sound right.

  My fingers pause, hovering above the keyboard of my braille typewriter. There is a suspicious vibration in the air this morning, like the incessant whirr of electricity. People always used to be surprised when I asked them to turn off the lights, considering that I am incapable of seeing even the faintest glow—but for me, it was deafening. The city was full of noisy lights that were powerless to brighten my shadow-soaked world, constantly teasing me with their insect-like buzzing. One of the main reasons I moved out here was for the peace and quiet; but at this moment, it is neither peaceful nor quiet. That bugs me.

  I hear the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow, almost a mile away.

  Footsteps are not uncommon around here, but they do not usually belong to people. I prefer it that way; I have surrounded myself with acres of harmless, innocent forest, so that my only neighbors are squirrels and birds. They are far more polite than human neighbors, and never dare to bother me—not even to borrow condiments. The trees, of course, have no voices. Unlike in Narnia, they don’t whisper my secrets to each other, and mock me when my back is turned. They have been kind, loyal friends—quite dissimilar to most of the people I have known. Anyone who has had the good fortune of spending time with the infinite silence of the trees, will acknowledge their wisdom.

  Two distinct voices are approaching my residence.

  This is strange and unsettling; there is a flutter of fear in my gut. The only voices that ever come all the way out here belong to the mailman, or occasionally, the repairman from town. I am not expecting any visitors. When I hid myself away in the wilderness all those years ago, I changed my name and did not tell my family or friends my address. I knew they would have come looking for me, not believing that I could manage on my own. They would have continued coddling me, and fussing over me like I was an invalid, and ultimately driven me insane. I have been happy with my solitude. I thought I had escaped the world of prying, controlling, and frustrating people, but these two voices sound self-important and righteous. They sound like the types to callously invade my serenity and toss my life back into chaos.

  I am simply not in the mood for this. Pushing my typewriter aside, I rise to my feet and begin pacing in my small cabin. On the carpet, my own light footsteps are soundless and catlike. However, my ears are filled with the cacophony of men’s boots smashing the thin layer of ice above the snow, again and again, in an offensive rhythm. I wish they would turn away and go back to their own homes! I wish they would magically turn into tiny chipmunks, scurrying along on their business. I like chipmunks. From what I understand, they are quite adorable. As the male voices approach, I can begin to make out their words—they already sound rude and detestable, and not nearly as charming as chattering chipmunks.

  “I swear, Liam. If you made me come all the way out into the godforsaken boonies for nothing, I’m going to be pissed. I could have been relaxing at home with my girl this weekend.”

  “Come on, Owen! You wanted a special candidate, and she’s the one. I’m sure of it.”

  “But what if she doesn’t agree to join the study?” asked the one called Owen.

  “Why wouldn’t she agree?” countered the man called Liam. “There are virtually zero health risks! Almost every blind person we’ve approached has been excited at the idea of being able to see again. There were a few hold-outs… but they were nutcases.”

  “Yeah, some of these patients with LCA can be real wackos,” Owen said. “Being blind messes with their heads. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

  My eyebrows knit together in a deep frown as I eavesdrop on this conversation. Doctors. Why did it have to be doctors? Could it not have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or bible salesmen coming to knock on my door instead? Could it not have been girl scouts peddling cookies, or some disaster relief fund requesting donations? Anyone but doctors! Are there any people on the planet as two-faced as doctors? They pretend to care about you, acting sweet and condescending, and as soon as your back is turned, they reveal that they are only self-interested. I haven’t had such a scowl on my face in a long time, and my muscles are already beginning to hurt. How did they find me? My name no longer matches the one on my records. LCA, or Leber’s congenital amaurosis, is the disease I was born with, and it bothers me that these nosy physicians know about me and my medical history.

  A knock finally sounds at the door. “Hello! I’m looking for Helen. Miss Helen Winters?”

  I am furious. That is not my name anymore. I consider remaining quiet and pretending that I am not home, but they could come back later. It might be better to send them away with a definitive negative response to whatever offensive query they have for me. They probably just want to poke around inside my eyes and use me as a guinea pig. My father worked for pharmaceutical companies for years, and I know all about the unpleasant nature of such experiments. I knew a few kids with my disease when I was younger. Many of their parents put them through dozens of stressful surgeries and failed research trials, to no avail. I was lucky that my parents saved me from all the heartache of hoping and being disappointed.

  “Miss Winters?” asks the man again. “Are you home? Sorry to intrude on you like this, unannounced.
My name is Dr. Liam Larson, and this is my partner Dr. Owen Philips. We are currently leading a team conducting some clinical trials with groundbreaking gene therapy…”

  “Gene therapy?” I ask in surprise. I had not been planning to speak, but they caught me off-guard. My voice sounds strange and awkward; I have not used it in so long. I am a bit embarrassed that my throat feels like a rusty instrument.

  “Yes. We’re looking for candidates between the ages of 23-26 to test a modification to an existing drug that has shown great promise. If you agree to join this study, there’s a chance that we might be able to give you the ability to see. Would you like to open the door and let us tell you more about our research?”

  My mind has begun racing as I stand frozen and rooted to the spot. I place my fingers against my lips to keep from making any strange noises. I don’t want to betray how I feel by breathing too erratically, so I try to clear my head and settle my nerves. I have read about recent gene therapy research conducted for my disease, and it was extremely fascinating. Many people were able to regain their sight after the experiments, but there was no confirmation on whether it was permanent, or whether other problems would not arise. Still, I feel an incredible rush of excitement, and my imagination runs away with me. What if I tried? What if it worked, even for a few days? What if I could see all the things I have never seen?

  I could see my sister, whom everyone declares to be stunningly beautiful. I could see my father, and finally know what he looks like when he releases that bellow of deep, booming laughter. I remember how prickly his beard used to feel when he would hug me, but my mother always said that she considered his beard handsome. How could something that feels so unpleasant actually be appealing to the eye? What does a beard even look like? Why was my sister always so obsessed with the color of her hair? Why did she struggle to dye it blonde, and then red, and then black? What do those words even mean? What does blue look like? I have heard that the sky is blue. I used to dream about supernaturally getting my vision back when I was a child; a fairy would come and grant me a wish, because I had been good, or she had heard me crying and taken pity. The first thing I would always do in these fantasies is run outside and look at the sky, and figure out what the heck blue means.