Like What You See?

A deafblind model takes advantage of a new way to perceive the world – and herself.

I’m brought to life by the feeling of someone watching me - a woman, familiar but distant. In her world, my comatose body lies still on the hospital bed, bandaged and sedated into a deep torpor. In her being, I feel the cold, clinical air of the hospital room and the soft warmth of the afternoon sunlight oozing in through the slats of the blinds; through her eyes, I can almost see the orange blush coating the entire room, offering a moment of comforting ease in an otherwise uncomforting situation. I try my best to control the strange body to no avail; I only feel the sensations of my host, realizing I’m merely a passenger to someone else’s existence. I struggle to find a way to see the world for what it is through their eyes, through the pale film that somehow obscures everything around them. I finally resign my panic when I accept the fact that I am no longer in control of either the me that is lying still on the hospital bed or the woman in the room who I inexplicably now inhabit.

But things change when she begins to move. She looks down at her lap upon her folded hands, and even through the obscurity I immediately recognize a familiar bejeweled engagement ring wrapped around her finger and casual torn-jeans on her thighs, legs tucked together out of a nervous habit. Unmistakable blond locks of hair fall against a white blouse, before they are pointlessly tucked behind her ear; my sister, Bree, who sits across from my bed-ridden self is probably awaiting some kind of news I’m not supposed to be privy to. On cue, I begin to hear murmurs. They start out quiet, nigh-inaudible, but as they begin to grow in volume and clarity I start to pick out single words; “wake”, “operation”, “different.”

In a start I regain feeling in my body. Not in the body of my sister, but of my own atrophied arms and legs. I wiggle my fingers and toes, and my sister’s eyes rise to meet the movements. I take baby steps like I was taught by Jaz, my runway coach. I suddenly remember her telling me, “You’ll never take off if you can’t handle the run-up first.” But things had to go my way - I didn’t listen. Now I had no choice; one step at a time, I flex muscles in my forearms and calves, up through my biceps and thighs and finally through my body, as if wading through a murky bog without a lantern. Every part of me is on fire, but to my sister, that clearly doesn’t matter. She’s now risen from her chair and hastily approached, clutching my hand so firmly that I’m able to feel it through the abject numbness of my own bodily sensations. She looks up, and I see a small glint of chrome from beneath layers of gauze secured around my forehead, pressed tightly against my temple. I have no time to consider what it could be before I regain control of my motor functions, leaning into Bree’s bearlike hug. I reciprocate as best I can, still overwhelmed by the incredibly unnatural feeling of inheriting her bodily stimulations in place of my as they own flood from her mind into mine. I speak, and Bree listens.

“Bree...” hearing myself talk through the ears of another immediately nauseates me, but I try to collect myself and look down at the bed, her gaze following. “What happened?” Conflicted, she breaks eye contact as her glances bounce from corner to corner of the hospital room.

“You were in an accident, Seb.” She’s reluctant to continue, her voice breaks even. “I… it’s complicated.” She doesn’t elaborate, and for some reason I find myself holding back.

“Bree. I can’t see or hear. I can’t see or hear, Bree.” My own body, struggling to find its sense of direction, finally meets the eyes of my sister - and myself. A conflicted silence passes.

“You suffered severe damage to your brain and nervous system. The doctors said there was only one way to save you.” She leans over, reaching for the now occupied spot above my temple, stroking a lock of disheveled blond hair from my jutting cheekbone and studies the foreign metal object. In her voice, a deep sadness lines her strenuous composure. “I’m so sorry Sabine. We didn’t have a choice.”

“What is it? What’s it doing to me?”

A terrified realization contorts her expression as she struggles to form an answer. “I… I don’t know.”

From beside me I hear the door open, and I disappear from sight as Bree looks over to a doctor who has tactfully entered the room. A cognizant expression is passed between them and Bree nods, approaching my bed. But as my own eyes cast a look at him, I no longer inhabit the body of just my sister. From the bespeckled eyes of my doctor and the worried gaze of Bree, the sensations I’d felt previously double in capacity, and I am once more overwhelmed by a flood of extrasensory stimulation unlike anything I ever knew was possible. 

The doctor tries to explain my situation, but his words are meaningless, simply passed from his own stimuli to those of my sister and then back to my own.  Like an endlessly flowing current, I now exist within them all. I feel as though I’ve been given permission to perceive every inch of the world through their senses, two times what I was used to before. What’s the limit? How far can I go? How much can I even take before I’m unable to understand the concept of my individual existence? Maybe it’s already too late. I see myself from two different angles, through the eyes of two different people, I hear myself from two different pairs of ears in different parts of the room - never before have I been so acutely aware of my own surroundings, of the way I am and carry myself. It’s terrifying, but at the same time euphoric. I’m intoxicated by the endless possibilities. My heart races. But Bree and my doctor have no idea - they don’t know that the way they look at me only makes me more confident in myself.

I tune back in. “...Ms. Cober?” The doctor speaks. I give him a flawless smile; I adjust the corners of my mouth accordingly through the clarity of his prescription lenses. His heart beats faster.

“Sorry. This is just so much to take in at once.” I try to change the tone of my voice to not sound too upbeat. The doctor looks at Bree - she’s giving me her best reassuring expression. She has no idea how excited I feel. I continue, “Is the implant permanent?”

He sighs, adjusting his glasses to compose himself. He glances at his clipboard, flipping through pages. As I read through his notes, I can tell it’s in vain. “Well, until we fully assess your nerve damage and develop an appropriate treatment, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do. Your occipital and temporal lobes underwent an extensive healing process, but with our current technology we weren’t able to mitigate the neural pathways responsible for restoring your direct stimuli.” I release a brief ‘oh’ as I exhale, feigning disappointment. “For now, the ARDIS implant will have to serve as a temporary replacement for your dominant sensory organs.” Bree isn’t convinced.

“But… but you’re working on a treatment, correct?” She turns to the doctor, arms crossed. He replies with a flat smile.

“Of course. But it’ll take time, and it’ll be costly.”

“That won’t be an issue. Just… please try to help my sister. Please.” I nearly raise my hand in protest, but I stop myself. I need to keep things under control, for her sake. For my own sake. I simply opt to nod instead.

I’m released from the recovery ward later that day. I join my sister in a taxi directly outside the hospital, led by her firm grip the entire way down the stairs, through the lobby dominated by leering bystanders. She has no idea I’m about to pass out from the sheer amount of sensory information. I’m overwhelmed, so much so that I find it hard to focus on where I am, what to focus on, what to listen to and what not to listen to. Everything becomes a blur. I try to use Bree as an anchor; I study myself and my flawless features from her sole perspective, my towering six-foot presence compared to her comparatively meager frame. I grip her arm tighter as we get into the cab.

“Everything okay Seb? Do you need anything?” I give another pristine smile, sloppier and more nervous this time. I’m afraid the world is closing in on me, yet at the same time opening up in a way that brazenly bares every inch of itself. I didn’t even have that much confidence in my own body.

“Yeah. It’s just, well… it’s a little overwhelming. Heh.” Bree shoots me an overly concerned look as the taxi pulls away from the curb; I can tell by the way she strains her facial muscles to frown, a distinct and unmistakable feeling.

“Seb, what exactly do... how do you see and hear? I tried to understand the doctor’s explanation. It was mostly just nonsense. I ended up missing some of the fine print.” She shrugs her shoulders a little, and I produce a stifled laugh.

“What makes you think I was listening?” She suddenly turns serious again, glaring intently. As we cruise speedily through downtown, I start to feel the whirl of sights and sensations flood my head again; I continue to focus on myself, on Bree as best I can.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I try to find a way to phrase it, but I’m finding less and less excuses to keep the conversation going. I want to soar, I want to experience everything, I want to exist in this world like I’ve never done before.

“Bree,” I say, as I look through the eyes of our taxi driver, “do you think I could start modeling again?” Baffled, she sits in silence. I take it in, and alongside it the opportunity to let go. I’m immersed in the birth of neon city lights upon the backdrop of a setting sun, I take in the swirling, endless conversations of people on the street, of businessmen in their highrises. Of hotdog stand attendees and retail workers. I am one with my environment. Everything around us is me, nothing is hidden. I’m euphoric, and terrified - I’ve never felt this way before, but at the same time I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve lost myself, I’ve stopped struggling to contain my boundless desires. Bree’s response is adrift in the wind, along with the many other voices I’m unable to give my attention to. But it doesn’t matter because I’ve already decided. 

Now I stand in the wings of the catwalk, carefully adjusting the sequined sleeves of my ornate low-cut silk dress as I wait in the queue. Bass-heavy music blasts into the eardrums of the audience and reverberates through their cores. I catch every sensation, every detail of my body, thanks to my manager Preston who nervously stands beside me in the darkness of the annex. His eyes are plastered to me, admiring every niche and curve of my figure, not unlike the other soon-to-be eyes who wait in anticipation of my premiere. I give him an appropriately oblivious glance and he shyly averts his eyes and begins to babble into his earpiece. I can’t contain my excitement, restlessly debating whether to step out onto the runway ahead of time or not; it doesn’t distract me for more than a couple seconds before I find myself confronted by the longing judgment of the world. 

For a moment I forget the procedure. My mind is in lapse, pure freefall, from the intense pheromonal frenzy. Reality only kicks in as I begin to confidently stride down the narrow length of the ramp. I take deep breaths… Jaz’s words ring in my head, I settle into my groove: “Don’t forget. Subtle chin tilt downwards, you want them to see your entire face. Keep a natural look. They all know how beautiful your smile is already, no need to distract them from your outfit. But your eyes are fierce; they still need the fire, the passion - just don’t make it too easy for ‘em, yeah?” And then something else, something Jaz didn’t nor wouldn’t be able to tell me: “Whatever you do, don’t get too distracted. Don’t let go. You need an anchor, because without one you’ll drift out to sea.” On cue, Preston’s terrified gaze watches the length of my back shrink in size as I continue to glide down the runway, seemingly unfazed by the countless of eyes - the endless stimulation - all trying their best to take control of me and send me into an inescapable nirvana. I resist the urge to send him a glance back.

I now let some of my observers trickle in; I use their mesmerized gaze to adjust my figural presence, my attitude, the length between my carefully-placed steps; in turn, they grow warmer in their cheeks, and the room emanates with a new fiery passion as I accommodate every single one of their preferences. Against Jaz’s strict traditional methods, I put a girly, playful spring in my step, I lift the corners of my mouth just a little bit to hint at a smile, I intensify the furrow in my brow. My back remains straight, my stride remains even with one foot in front of the other, and my shoulders and arms are relaxed as they delicately swing by my sides. I reach the end of the catwalk, my struts aligning to the beat of the music, and strike a confident, sexy pose full of ardent fervor; the surrounding congregation erupts with cheer and applause. I know exactly what they want. I can’t help but unprofessionally let loose the biggest smile I can muster, barely managing to suppress an oncoming giggle.

At the end of the night, I tiredly retreat into the darkness of my hotel room with Preston in tow. I’d told him that he would be my anchor, my “guide” of sorts, but I never elaborated on what exactly that meant, and he had agreed to stay in the same hotel room with me only after I insisted it was necessary due to the operation. He was concerned about his reputation, and more importantly my reputation. But as far as he knew, I was simply myself, just a more refined and superior version. I suddenly began to wonder whether or not anyone in the audience noticed the metallic glint tucked behind my voluminous hair, or if it even mattered. Exhausted from doing any more thinking, Preston watches me flop onto one of the two twin beds face-first in a very unladylike way.

“You were amazing today,” he says just barely above his breath. Preston was never a very expressive or outward person - managing behind-the-scenes suited him just fine - so his comment surprises me. I sit up and look towards him, meeting his gaze with a casually puzzled look.

“Uh… thanks.” I can’t help but get a little awkward. He refuses to make eye contact, instead looking out the large wall-sized windows exposing the glittering LA skyline. The entire room is dark, and unusually tense. Moving shadows line the walls and dance in interpretation of passing cars. He shifts a little in his posture.

“I’ll get the lights.” Strangely, he doesn’t go for the overhead switch, opting to illuminate the smaller scattered lamps stationed by the bedside table and the desk in the corner of the room. His footsteps are dampened against the soft carpet floor; he still hasn’t taken his shoes off.

“Preston, you’re gonna track grime around the carpet… now the poor custodians have to do more work than they need to.” He smiles a little, scratching the back of his head full of slicked-back hair. Apparently he forgot that he’d been jogging around backstage all day, his soles now a refuge for glitter and oil no doubt. He makes eye contact with me again.

“Shoot. Sorry.”

“You might want to save your apology for the little lady that comes knocking on the door at 8 in the morning tomorrow.” 

“I’ll just leave a bigger tip,” he snidely responds as he removes his loafers.

“You can’t just buy your way out of everything, you know.” You wouldn’t assume he were very wealthy just based on his attire, frequenting a grey cardigan over a dress shirt and solid dark blue chinos. But Preston was deceptively professional when the situation called for it, and his paycheck sure reflected that.  

“I don’t know,” he took a seat by the desk and leaned back a little with his arms crossed as if entertaining the idea, “I probably could.” I shrug my shoulders a little in response, admitting defeat.

There’s a moment of silence before the tension returns. Preston clearly has something on his mind. I try to search for a topic of conversation, and for a moment I turn to my implant when I find myself absentmindedly fidgeting with the smooth metallic surface. He notices when he glances back at me, and I quickly stop when I see how obvious it is.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, Sabine.” He points to it, as if to confirm my suspicions. There’s no avoiding it now. I debate whether to tell him the truth or not, but I quickly vanquish the thought - I trust Preston a lot, he’d been with me ever since my career really started taking off. 

“Ask away then.”

“How do you know what other people want?” I’m temporarily caught off by the nature of his question - to figure that out from observation alone is pretty worrying. There is no hint of amusement in his tone. His dead-serious air sends an involuntary shiver down my spine; I get the feeling that he already knows the answer, he simply wants to hear it come from me.

“I see the world differently. I sense the world differently. I perceive things through other people, as many people as there are around me. I know what they see, what they hear, what they want. I don’t know how it works, all I know is that I’ve never been more content with myself as I am now.” Preston is silent for a moment. “Can’t you tell?“

“And it’s all because of that thing in your head?” I nod. He doesn’t pursue the logistics of it any further, rather he sits back again in a way that says his suspicions were confirmed. A rising feeling of apprehension plagues his gut - he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear. “Sabine, I got a call after the show today. It was Verve Magazine. They offered you a spot in their upcoming November pageant.” I try to contain my excitement, because he continues to speak. “I turned them down because of that… that thing. I knew something was up today, because I’ve never seen the crowd at Epsilon so riled up before. It didn’t feel right.” My excitement turns to anger almost immediately, my face burns red hot and my fists are balled up before I can even fully process what he’s said. He turned down the opportunity for my career to launch to new heights because of my implant? Rationality wouldn’t come to me. It made no sense. I was perfect today. “Sabine…”

I stand up. I try to calm down.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” He scoots back in his chair a little, clearly afraid. Through his eyes my preconceived beauty becomes monstrously distorted. “You ruined my career. All because of this stupid implant. Do you think I had a choice? Do you think I wanted this? What the f**k was I supposed to do, say no?” I try to keep my voice at a reasonable level, but through Preston everything sounds horribly sinister.

“Sabine, look at me. It’s not fair. Not fair to you, not fair to any of the other girls. So it would be best if you didn’t participate. Don’t you understand that? Besides,” he stands to cement himself in his pride, “that competition isn’t worth it. You wouldn’t have gone anywhere even if you won.” I don’t take the time to consider whether or not I’ve misinterpreted his words before I’m consumed by a terrifying animosity. My spite, directed at his entire being, bends the previously flawless elegance of my figure; in his eyes, I’m no longer the model who took the jaded crowd of the Epsilon Center by storm. I’m a pariah. I want him to disappear. Everything becomes a blur - he turns away from me, approaching the window with quick and uncharacteristically unsteady strides. 

I don’t have time to stop what happens next before I’m blinded by the familiar numbness of pain, of unstoppable consequences and wanting to take back everything in a single moment. The world is consumed by fear, by unrelenting turmoil. I can’t even tell if the coldness I feel is that of the outside world or of my own anxiety. And then a body falls, wind whipping by its face, carrying it like a feather on the moon towards the ground below. A brief moment passes before I relearn the meaning of both agony and emptiness.

And then I return to the dark. I return to myself. I’m in the hotel room lying on the ground, feeling helpless and scarred. I feel life leaving the body that had hit the street below, lying amongst the strewn shards of glass and spattered crimson. I wonder to myself if I were responsible, and every conclusion I come to points to the answer I refuse to accept. But it isn’t possible, I shouldn’t have that power. Right? It’s impossible. I didn’t have a choice. I tug at the cool piece of metal fused to my temple and find it won’t come off. It’s a part of me, just like my decisions, and now I have to choose how to live with them. I stand up, waiting for something else to happen, but I am alone as I drift into a familiar oblivion. I’m only met with a cool gust of wind as I shift the weight of my feet who feel nothing but broken glass. 

Author's Note

Thoughts on character, prose, narrative? Is it confusing or hard to follow?

Reviews

[KevinKevz]

This is kinda sad. I can feel the images you were trying to let your readers see. It's about hopelessness and somehow it's the pain who makes you realize you are still alive.