It's like an Ig. Blog. Well, not really. It's more on an insight from us blind people. And seriously, I am legally blind, I just don't need one of thos sticks just yet. I can't read twelve font past 3 inches from my face, maybe a bit less.
So this Iggy's story, he'll give glimpses of the books, not often... or maybe often, it's an impulse story... but this guy is like me... you never know what's coming :D
To My Goth Faerie: Another Iggy story! Gaspeth! How's you life, haven't heard from you in a while... but you know what? No pairings in this one.
It's a concept that darkness is my best friend and worst enemy. I see it more often than anything; in fact, it's the only thing I see. I miss sight.
I wake up every morning to the same friendly darkness and go to sleep to it every night.
What a concept.
Every morning when I woke up I would brush my fingertips against my face, reassuring me where I was. I hated and loved my fingers. They were so calloused and worn from bomb making and hard work I've always hated them in fear that I would lose my sense of touch. But I love them so much because they tell me where I am and who someone is.
Being disabled gives you a double-edged sword everyday. I can love being blind, missing out on the sights of gore and misfortunes around me, and I can hate it because it heightens my ears and lets me hear failed experiment screams so much more so that anyone else that I wish I could hear only silence.
But then I remember that room. It was a room that was wide and heavily cemented. No vibration could make its way in and none could be made in it, even I could not budge a centimeter. And you know what? The silence was deafening.
Unable to see and trapped in the loudest silence known to anyone, I swear I would have gone mad because after a while I could no longer hear my thoughts that tried to tune out the droning silence.
But outside of that room, silence isn't so bad because there is no such thing as actual silence. There is always the whirr of the fan, the soft sounds of breathing, and the occasional shuffle made by someone adjusting themselves into a more comfortable position. There is always the soft and distant tapping of a bug, the distinct sound of the wind, and there are always, always, the familiar footsteps of the flock.
"How's it coming along, womanizer?" Max asked me softly, her heavy boots making contact with the floor in a specific pattern. Her right step was always a fourth shorter than her left, not to mention the way her pants made a swish sound because of her steps. I smiled softly, so Fang had told her, eh?
"Fine." I replied, waving my hand off to go away, in my ears it sounded like the whoosh of a metal bat.
"All right, just keep watching." Her footsteps retreated. Yeah, watching. There's so much irony about that.
What a concept.
The year that Jeb disappeared, I remember that summer. Fang was so silent I could hardly hear him breathe. And Max, cried when everyone had gone to bed. I would stay up for hours, just listening to her sobs. She had to be the leader, she had to be strong, and she had to play face. I didn't need to be blind to know that. Everyone was so silent the year that Jeb left that I almost felt like I was back in that room…
Mk, so the first chapter is short. And no previews and no challanges for this one.
And you thought Iggy was only just a pyro, he's so much more sophisticacted than that! I mean what else does he have to do? Listen to paint dry?