Back to School [Mortimer]

[Robin Little]

Blindness.

Robin had been hopeful. He’d thought the wound at the back of his skull – the cracked bone, the damaged brain – would heal. Even after a whole week and all he could see was darkness, he still had hope. It was a bad wound. It was one of the worst. He’d been on death’s door. It could just take a little longer to heal.

But eventually he could touch the back of his head and feel no tenderness. Eventually, he stopped getting migraines every time he moved too fast. Eventually, he just knew that the wound was healed. It was gone. His brain was whole again, as was the bone of his skull. And yet, he was still blind.

It was in the first week that he’d found Samuel and enthralled him. The guy was about Robin’s age – or so Robin assumed – and Robin had ordered some pizza in order to get Samuel to come to the door. Now, the poor pizza delivery guy was Robin Little’s personal assistant, there to help him get to and fro. A human guide dog. At least he was being paid well for his services, and had no qualms telling Robin exactly what he thought.

In the end, Robin didn’t actually have to force Samuel into anything. Enthrallment probably wasn’t required – just the promise of a payrise, and a job that was far superior to the one Samuel was leaving behind. It was Samuels’ idea to learn how to read braille; Samuel himself couldn’t teach Robin, but there were classes that could. There were plenty of amenities for blind people these days. Plenty of technology. There were options.

Though that didn’t make Robin any less cranky.

Still, there he was. The building wasn’t far from Wickbridge station; it was a bland looking store front, not that Robin would know how bland or bright it was. As soon as he entered he could smell the instant coffee and the finger food they had on offer; as an Allurist, Robin could eat, and so he nodded when Samuel asked whether he wanted anything. Robin found a seat at one of the desks – they felt like those old school desks, with the table attached to the chair, and sighed. He was on edge.

If his bad luck could send him permanently blind, then what could happen next?

WEARING

[Mortimer (DELETED 9658)]

Mortimer, who often accepted being called 'Mort' for short, had resolved to turn his life around. Yes, things had been better once, and they were not-so-good now, but he was an eternal optimist. Other people might have been pre-occupied with their misfortune or perhaps even losing their grip on reality by fixating on supernatural things, of which he'd heard rumor of in Harper Rock but not much more than that, but not Mortimer.

He had better things to focus on. The strange thing was that he wasn't entirely sure what he was wearing. He knew it was a long-sleeved shirt, he knew he was in jeans, but he couldn't figure out the colors. He could feel points where the fabrichad frayed. He smelled of Wickbridge Station, where he panhandled. It was not pleasant--it was like smelling of asphalt, ash, and industry. Thankfully, it covered up his less-than-clean normal odor....though it was debatable if the new smell was exactly better.

During his pandhandling, someone had told him about a nearby class that would teach Braille. Mortimer had earned some small money from his pandhandling...and sometimes via clumsy attempts to pickpocket people that got too close. He didn't mean to be a criminal, but it was the sort of misbehavior that was caused by a hungry stomach rather than malfiesance. Once upon a time, he'd been quite handsome--brown hair, finely kept beard, tanned skin, piercing eyes that looked like a stormy sea. Nowadays...well, he did not know what he looked like. He knew he was unkempt. But he had no idea how much damage the shrapnel and debris that had blinded him in the construction accident had done to his face.

He had better things to think about. Braille!

After getting directions several times and occasionally asking assistance from passerby to guide him along, Mortimer found the place the class was being taught. The smell of the coffee hit him instantly, and his stomach rumbled in reply. He made a beeline for the food and coffee once a few others mentioned the food...and summarily tripped over a chair.

From somewhere in the vicinity of the floor, Mort said, "Ah. Okay. I'm sure this class teaches Braille. Probably doesn't teach obstacle-avoidance, I'd hazard." There were a couple of smiles, and Mort, grinning, was guided by a teacher to sit at a desk, where someone was kind enough to bring him coffee and a snack. It was obvious to those who could see that Mort was the panhandler who'd taken up residence near Wickbridge.

He was sitting near Robin; he could hear someone near. He didn't know it was Robin, of course, and Robin was a stranger, but Mort said, "Uh, nice to meet you. Mortimer, but most just call me Mort. Can I assume if you're sitting here that you're taking the class, too?"

[Robin Little]

At first, Robin had no idea someone was talking to him.

At first, he was only distracted by the scent. He couldn’t figure it out. What was that scent? But then, eventually, he realised it was the scent of human. A scent that he himself wasn’t accustomed to much anymore; he didn’t sweat. Maddison didn’t sweat. Those he spent his time with, they didn’t sweat. There was no body odour attached to vampires. They had specific scents peculiar only to them, but it wasn’t… odour.

Robin soon realised that the scent belonged to the speaker. Not long on the heels of the first realisation was the second: no one had answered the speaker, Mort. It took a nudge from Samuel, who proceeded to grab Robin’s hand and guide it to the coffee cup, to fully realise that Robin was the one being addressed. He turned in the direction of the voice.

”Sorry,” he said, bright blues sweeping, unseeing.

”Robin,” he said. He even started to hold out a hand but realised that if they were both there, they neither of them could see. Mort, as he called himself, would not know that Robin was holding out a hand to shake. He wondered if there was some process by which two blind people greeted each other. And if someone who could see held out their hand for Robin to shake, how was he to know?

”Yeah, I’m here for the class. Recently crippled,” he said, laughing. Then, almost as if he could feel Samuel rolling his eyes, he realised the joke was no doubt insensitive. That some of these people probably didn’t want to see themselves as crippled; they were probably more positive than Robin, who could not seem to dismiss his bitterness.

”Sorry. Awkward. I was an avid reader before… before. And want to be able to keep reading. DO you know if these braille books are… like is everything published in braille or are my options going to be limited…?” he asked. Probably a question for the teacher rather than for another student. But it was at least a way to fill the silence – and to quell the anxiety that, any minute, the roof could fall in on their heads.

[Mortimer (DELETED 9658)]

The delay in reply reminded Mort that it wasn't as if another blind person would have the accompanying visual cues to know they'd been the one spoken to. He felt a little silly, but he didn't let it show. Well, he could have, not that the other person could see.

"I've heard that a lot of good things are produced in Braille, but not everything. A lot of it relies on translators willing to produce the material. So...options are a lot more limited for stuff originally produced by people who can still see, I think. But I do think that blind authors can produce their own stuff using text-to-speech and a handy publisher willing to put something out in normal and Braille editions. Hopefully, at any rate. The teacher might know more? I'm sort of approaching answering the question the way I would for any language that requires competent and capable translators."

He had purposely not mentioned how long he'd been blind for at first; Robin's question about Braille literature seemed to be a better ice-breaker.

"New-ish blind, too, I guess. Work accident, in my case. Unfortunately, the perfect storm of problems, one of which being my inability to read Braille, has left me in a professional bind looking for other work, so here I am."

Mortimer tried his best to listen to the goings-ons in the room. "Are there quite a lot of people here, do you think?"

I think there are more than I would have anticipated once upon a time, but not nearly as many as one would think is in a normal class, Mort thought to himself, but he couldn't be sure.

Meanwhile, the teacher of the course came in and began quietly setting up at front, and Mort did hear that. He asked Robin, "Is this your first time here? Do you have any idea how they teach these classes? I hear someone in front; I wonder if we'll be starting soon."

[Robin Little]

Robin’s eyes were wide and cornflower blue, highlighted by the overhead lights that he could not see. There was no variation in the darkness that Robin had become victim to. His arms were crossed over his chest and, honestly, he was being lazy. For a vampire with extra, heightened senses he could have answered a lot of Mort’s questions. But honestly, he’d not been paying much attention. If being a vampire could be compared to using the full capacity of one’s brain, Robin had unlocked that power – but failed completely to use it. He was given a bunch of free and useful amenities and he ignored their presence.

The vampire shifted in his seat, clearing his throat.

”Yeah. I mean, unless the teacher is sick, this thing has a start time. It’ll start soon,” he said. He was smiling. The other guy couldn’t see that. He was trying to make a joke and failed completely.

And it was as if the vampire, plagued by bad luck, had somehow tested the universe. He’d thrown an idea, regardless of its truth, out into the ether. Sick, he’d said. And when he’d said it, he’d imagined someone – a balding man, probably – hunched over a porcelain toilet seat and throwing up his dinner. He imagined the teacher had eaten Mexican for dinner, and mixed in with the putrid bile were bits of undigested corn and diced tomato. Coriander, too. Because who would ever want to eat coriander? It was probably what had made the guy throw up to begin with.

He didn't have a chance to answer the other question (even if he did not know how many people were here). He didn't have a chance to comment on the amount of literature available or how one might add to it.

Just like that, just because Robin had imagined it – as if some trickster creature plucked it straight out of his head – there was a retching behind Robin.

”No. Noo—“ he started, then had to slam his mouth shut, lips pursed, nostrils flaring as he refused to breathe in. Retching turned into puking, and warm, chunky liquid was sprayed all over the vampire (and maybe even whoever was close enough to him). There were gasps and murmurs, and another retch. Another spray of the worst bad luck a man could ever know.

And Robin could do nothing but sit there and take it.