The young man approached under my glare of hatred and condemnation. He slid his helmet from his head revealing a shock of short blond hair matted with...sweat. He ruffled a dirty hand through it as he cast about the room. He took up an old headscarf, one that had once belonged to my mother, and knelt before me. He dabbed and wiped at the carnal residue high up on my thighs. I turned my head away. I sensed the delicate touch of the cloth briefly against the ruined place between my legs. He then. I never felt as though I was missing out, even with my lack of vision. Sure, I feel that little twist of jealousy when someone will go, “Look at this,” forgetting I'm present, or if I'm within my well developed hearing range. When people realize that I may have overheard, they're quick to apologize, but I'm always ready to forgive them. My friends don't really extend beyond the length of having them since middle school or so. In elementary, no one wanted to be associated with the “blind kid.”. More

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