Compulsion lead her to step on each fallen, crumpled leaf as she walked down the seemingly forgotten path. The sound satisfied her, and each crunch sent a tingling sensation from the bottom of her shoe to her entire body. The pavement was laced with the remnants of summer, and the barren tree branches swayed nakedly in the wind. Depending on one's disposition, Fall could paint a beautiful story of transition or a depressing tale of things gone too soon. She reflected on these ideas, and realized that she was uncomfortably suspended between both. As she crossed the street, she noticed a raccoon flattened into the road. Streaks of red and loose pieces of fur were the only indications that there was once a life in this pile of guts. She stopped in the middle of the intersection and took a thorough glance at the dead animal. Normally, she'd have walked passed it and just sighed with a twinge of sadness. But today, perhaps inspired by the facade of decrepitude in the trees, she stopped and stared. She was arrested by one of its eyes that was still intact--wide open. It reminded her of her grandmother--minutes after she died. The dullness of her eyes and her crusted mouth, wide open--comfortably a corpse more than a person. "But what makes the difference?" She wondered. She looked up at those deceptive trees, on the precipice of some sort of conclusion, and walked on.

She was on her way to meet a friend for coffee. But was rather early, so she strolled to pass the time. Once it got too cold to justify the walk, she popped into a used book store. She quite enjoyed the atmosphere of these types of stores. But was, admittedly, not much of a reader. The air of intellectualism and literature was alluring to her, even though she hadn’t finished a book in years. It would always start the same. She’d revel in holding the book. Smelling it. Excited by the description on the back. She’d pop it open and would intensely read the first few pages. But prose almost never kept her. Her eyes would tire. Perhaps her imagination was limited, and she preferred the worlds of cartoons and anime. Whatever the reason for the disconnect, her compulsions did not extend to finishing boring literature. She had crushed countless leaves on her journey to the cafe and would, inevitably, devour every inch of the sandwich she was going to order. She followed failing relationships to their very end and would pick and clip every fingernail until they were all the same size. And yet, she could not commit enough to a single book for more than a few chapters. She plucked a book from one of the shelves and examined it. Hardcovers were her favorite to hold. When determining if she’d ever actually take a book home for a half-assed attempt at reading, she relied on obscure titles and nice cover art. She stood there with the dusty book and felt its weightiness. “The Heart of Things” lined the cover in thin white letters. Intrigued, she read the back, but assessed that she wouldn’t lose herself in the story, so she placed the book back on its shelf. She looked up and began to observe the university students ponder through their choices and her eyes followed them to the cash register. The old man behind the counter seemed to be a perfect match for the atmosphere. He wore a black turtleneck and jeans, that were no-doubt purchased at a consignment shop. The frames of his glasses were round and sat on the bridge of his nose. She wondered if he had to look down in order to see through them. His wispy white hair was tied back into a ponytail--the balding center revealed a shining scalp that he wore like a crown. She wondered how many books he’d finished in his lifetime and gathered that he was making silent judgements at each person’s choice as he checked them out. She imagined him wisely asserting that “you can tell a lot about a person based on what they read”. She wondered if that was true.

Growing bored of the book store and chastising herself for being so early, she marched on to find another distraction to kill the time. She’d forgotten that it was cold outside and grumpily debated going back to the store for warmth. As she walked and crushed leaves, a man came into view holding a cup and standing outside of a restaurant. His hood laid over his head, secured in place by two scarves. He was toothless and his eyes revealed that he’d seen more in this life than he’d like to remember. She silently walked passed him and wondered if the people around her were consciously ignoring him in the way she was, or if they just didn’t even register that he was there. There were a few who mouthed “sorry” to his requests for help. She never quite knew what to say in those moments, but tried her best not to say “sorry”. She couldn’t imagine how many times he’d heard that, and wondered if he even distinguished the difference between responses that were all a form of “no”. But today, compelled by those solemn tree branches and some other accompanying force unknown to her, she doubled back and placed a five dollar bill into the man’s cup. She tried to give earnest eye contact and fished for some encouraging words. But the only thing she could think to say was “Good luck to you”. Giving homeless people money rarely made her feel better. Often times, it made her feel worse. At once, she could feel the weight of the hopelessness of the world...in front of her. In the form of a toothless old man who has been on the blind side of the universe. And how flimsy her small money was. But in those moments, she tried not to focus on what she was giving, but how she gave it. It seemed more important to acknowledge him. To look at him. But even that approach had a touch of condescension. There was no winning, so she had learned to just mindfully ignore them. And would reconcile that feeling within herself as she walked passed.

She mulled over this thought for the rest of her walk, as she finally approached the cafe, ready to meet her friend. She looked at her phone and was amazed to see that she was now five minutes late.

In some ways, pain is a universal language. What causes pain can vary, but pain is that which we all understand. Devon had a way of identifying people’s pain. Possibly because he himself was in a constant (yet hidden) state of despair. He knew the signals. Could recognize the small facial changes and energy shifts. And he would often take it upon himself to bring smiles wherever possible. It never seemed enough to satiate the growing void in his own heart and he had come to accept that his void would always be there. But the idea of eradicating such a feeling for others became a source of livelihood for him. He had a light-hearted nature that he maintained even after two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. In fact, this boyish disposition helped keep the nightmares at bay. He would play theme songs from the movies and shows of his childhood to aid him in getting through each night. In many ways, he had remained unchanged as the chipper and starry-eyed 17 year-old who fantasized about saving the world as a patriot. In many other ways, he was ruined. Stuck with the memories. The taste of a baby’s blood after being blown up in a stroller bomb; The dying words of his comrades, some he believed to be men much more deserving of life than he. Devon was someone who became complicated by way of experience. His core self (if one would like to argue that such a thing exists) was not intricate or heavy. It showed no signs of neurosis or anxiety----just depression. Brought on by the juxtaposition of his inner exuberance and the outer realities of his childhood and each numbing experience after. Perhaps this innocent simplicity lent to his reckoning. He had always dared to hope. Tasked himself with ending the suffering of others, even though he would never know such a feeling in his own heart.

This urge combined with a charming flirtatiousness is what led him to stop Lima on the street. She was, by any standard, a fat woman. Devon thought it looked good on her though, and he found that bigger women often let their guard down pretty fast if they felt desired. He caught a glimpse of exhaustion and sadness in her face--which he took as an opportunity to offer some dashing comfort. He found out her demeanor was due to a long day’s work, so he offered a consoling hug-- an excuse for touching-- which he thoroughly enjoyed. Lima had both a coltish and serious disposition: warm, intense, and grounded. Like hot Lava cooling on water as it turned to earth. She didn’t seem particularly giddy or impressed, but rather offered a genuine and curious interest in Devon. He had an affinity for genuine women. It helped him make up for his own deficit. What began as a transitory chance to put a smile on a pretty girl’s face, led to Devon considering an entire courting process. He had, in spite of himself, felt something. Hope reared its beautifully ugly head again. And in a fit of hopeful doubt, he took the bait.

Days later, Devon had arranged a date with Lima. He picked her up from her job and they set off for pizza and conversation by the lake. It was an evening in early November, so it was rather cold to be by the lake, but Devon had to bring her here---this particular beach offered many nostalgic memories for him and he needed to relive them. The pizza they had was also from a place he had frequented in his childhood--only befitting. Lima recognized this pattern of relived memories when Devon then drove them to a mall nearby that he used to visit as well (though she wouldn't analyze how pathetic and sinister this contrived list of destinations was until much later). If Lima had known any better at the time, she would have--for personal enjoyment--counted the number of times Devon said the word "SEAL." He would find ways to slip it in to parts of their conversations "when I was a SEAL..." or "As a SEAL..." or "SEALS are trained to..."

In spite of his incessant need to relive the past and his sadly obvious peacocking, Lima found Devon to be quite charming. In actuality, she subconsciously saw a project...a challenge to help the bruised veteran become whole again. For Devon, she would do. Lima was comforting and inviting--she could scratch his itch.They both unknowingly provided sufficient artillery for the other's complex.

They entered a whirlwind romance. Devon had professed strong feelings very early on. Lima, swayed by the persistence and consistency and his seemingly open and vulnerable communication, followed suit. They spent time together mostly at night after Devon got off of work. The first time they had made love, Devon proclaimed to be able to feel Lima's heartbeat and said their night was perfect. Lima had felt quite unsure and was numbed from nervousness and uncertainty. She didn't quite understand how the night was perfect for him. But he seemed so sure and his affections felt so nice that she assumed it to be so. Devon had a tendency to be quite confrontational with other men. On three different occasions, she had to diffuse situations where Devon almost got into fights....a passing car didn't slow down enough, a passerby didn't get out of the way fast enough...Devon had to be sure these other men respected him. Lima was pained at these useless displays of macho behavior and often wondered if this would be their future.

She never quite understood how the male ego worked…all she knew was that there was one, and that it was quite flimsy. He talked a lot. Mostly about himself--old memories and ever present feelings of despair. She listened. She gathered that most men do not have friends that they can vent to in this way. And wanting to feel needed, she readily accepted the opportunity to "be there." One day, as they were driving back from a day-long road trip out of town, Lima pushed herself to discuss her own turmoil. She had started to talk about her weight and struggles with wanting to feel admired. "You're beautiful" and some blanketed advice were all Devon could offer in that moment. A consoling compliment that would lighten the mood was often how he approached Lima's attempts at vulnerability. He figured women were easily appeased in this way. Validation was key. The conversation lasted 5 minutes. While she appreciated the affirming statement, she didn't feel quite comfortable enough pushing the subject or any of the deeper implications. She hushed. And Devon used the opening to reminisce about the day he completed his training "as a SEAL" and of a lover he used to know and how she broke his heart. For the next hour, he told story after story and when he stopped, Lima looked over to see that he had started crying. She felt many things--annoyance, curiosity about his past, a weight from the somber nature of his words, and a genuine appreciation for his story telling. She could not focus too long on any of these feelings for she felt a bigger need to help eradicate whatever sadness was sweeping over him and leading him to tears. As Devon let the tears fall down his face, he stated: "I'm finally ready to die." Panicked, Lima tried all of the flowery words she could, but Devon had seemed content with the hopelessness and preferred to turn on the proper song that he usually listened to in those moments. A song he discovered when he first fell in love with this girl and when he first joined the military. Lima stifled her own disturbed feelings as Devon parked in front of her apartment. They ascended the stairs and as they laid down in her room, he began removing her pants and expressed gratitude for her presence and support. All was well. She felt loved through feeling needed.

Devon came home pretty late that night. As he left Lima’s apartment, he drank an elixir of whiskey and NyQuil on his drive home. He rustled through the refrigerator to find something to eat…something to help cool the heart burn, the stomach ache, and the voices. He noticed a plate of leftovers wrapped in foil. He ripped off the foil and devoured the food. He washed it down with some old wine. He popped three Tylenol then went to his room. "Hi Steven" he heard from his bed, as he undressed, not bothering to wipe the juices of sex and sweat off of his body. He nestled under the covers, then leaned over and made love to his wife.

Funnily enough, the optometrist’s office was blinding. When I learned I was going to be blind, my first thought was that he must have misread the results in that glaring room. This assurance, however, was ephemeral. With unsettlingly-blurred vision, I turned to witness my mother crying for the first time. Helpless to confusion and shock and anger all at once, I convinced myself it really was his fault. There was nothing wrong with my parents, nothing wrong with me, and nothing wrong with my genetics, only his lies! His lies and his dumb, bright lights!

I thought my life couldn’t get any worse. I confined myself to my room, my parents occasionally bringing me my food in atypical leniency. This silent acknowledgement that I deserved sympathy, that I was pitiful only worsened my mood, and I alternated between anger, dolour and punishing scepticism for three days. I existed solely in my dark cocoon, unwilling to face my fading vision in the sunlight. On the last, in a feat of self-punishing rage, I flung apart the curtains. I was well aware it was spring because old Mr. Petrovski next door had yammered on to me about tulips and daffodils for weeks - I’d even taken to sneaking through other neighbours’ backyards in order to avoid him. But I couldn’t see it, because the light was too bright for me.

This final confirmation of my affliction pushed me over the edge. I gripped the windowsill for dear life as I bent over it, the taste of bile pungent at the back of my throat. My mind amok and my heart aflutter, I felt trapped inside my own reality as it came crashing down around me. I was too breathless to scream as I screened the horror of my imagined future onto the back of my eyelids. Deepbreathsdeepbreathsdeepbreathsdeepbreathsdeepbreathsdeepbreathsdeepbreaths

My eyes blinked open, nose mere centimetres from the windowsill. At this distance, I saw quite well. It was dirty. Drenched in dust. What? Completely mesmerised by this trifling triviality, I forgot my life and stood. Upon a confused cursory examination, I verified that yes, indeed, my hands were now coated in grime. The room spun with epiphanic detachment. My room was otherwise stainless, spotless, flawless - an omen of the skeletons in my closet. Yet my windowsill was filthy. How could I never have seen this before? Had I really bothered so little with looking outside... with looking outward?

My fingers skate along the grain of the kitchen table as my mind drifts in remembrance of things past. This was a year ago, and yet I am a lifetime of change from my fifteen-year-old self. I can’t rely on my eyesight anymore, so I just listen to Mr. Petrovski pottering about around me. I hear birds chirping, the radio crackling, and then a pretty woman walking down the street as he sets a heavy cup of tea in front of me. He doesn’t believe in coffee, although I’ve tried to convince him otherwise several times.

He and I have bonded over my love for flowers and, as the resident botanical expert, his help has been invaluable to me. My parents were originally a little wary, but they saw me pick the earliest bloomer to install on my windowsill last week. It was a soft, meek little tulip and I was the happiest I have ever been. I know my way around my garden pretty well, but my deteriorating vision had made gardening seem impossible at first. Thankfully, I managed to push through, fueled by my newfound appreciation of life.

Said passion had blossomed from the realisation that I’d always been so focused on hating myself and my life I’d never bothered to admire the beauty that existed around me, independent of me. My impending blindness drove me to try to enjoy it whilst I still could. And growing flowers, watching them rise by my own hand and explode in colour, quickly became an addiction.

However, this handiwork, coupled with my cataracts, introduced me to a whole new world of sensation - one I didn’t need sight to appreciate. Hearing the seeds swish in their packets and the A-sharp of my full watering can; feeling their velvety shoots burgeon and their buds flourish day by day; inhaling the scent of soil and the bouquet of floral aromas clinging to my clothes every night. Seeing, I could appreciate from afar: now, my life is fulfilled with little pleasures I had never been aware of before. I have clouded eyes, and I’ve found my silver eyeliner.