Page 35 of Sight Unseen

I’d won this battle and for that I was grateful.

Chapter 7

Nate

I was not going to tell a lie. I was nervous. Truly butt-clenching nervous. Good to my word, I’d met Michael Mitchell, Cody’s contact, and I’d seen him a few times since our initial meeting.

I’d liked Mike from the start. He was an easy-going, affable man with a deep belly laugh and the ability to challenge me. More than anything, it was what I had needed. I did have to choke down a chuckle when I thought of the way Cody had described his hair.

I’d learned some valuable lessons about working unsighted in the classroom Mike laughingly called Pottery Perversion because of the number of strange items apparently ending up resembling penises or breasts created by his eager but inexperienced students.

I was lucky. I already knew what I was doing despite my lack of sight. I knew the tools, the method, techniques and the creative process. I was an old hand at the steps to produce a piece, unlike some of his students who had been blind from birth and were learning the process from scratch.

“Use every sense you have,” Mike had directed as he guided me through the first stages of my lessons, or rather, his mentoring. “Visually impaired people often have a more tactile sense. They can feel what they are doing while seeing it in their mind’s eye. Use that fertile imagination you have. Caress the clay, make love to it. Use that muscle memory, let it guide you and become an instinctive process.”

He’d laughed. “You have an advantage actually. You’ll probably be quicker in shaping what you want because you’re not distracted by sight. You don’t spend unnecessary time checking it out every few minutes. You simply feel it develop.”

I’d found it easier than I’d thought to get back into it. The memories of my old life had flooded back and I’d realized, with a start of surprise, that even when I’d been sighted, I’d often shut my eyes and molded the clay into what I wanted using the sheer power of my fingers and the picture in my brain.

The vision I’d had in my head of what I wanted to create had been a blueprint to its creation, my hands and eyes the physical tools to bring to life. The only difference now was that I couldn’t open my eyes and see what I’d created. Now I had to feel it.

The last few weeks I’d been itching to begin something new that had haunted me in my dreams. I’d never seen the details, only the indistinct image of a man’s head, his features blurred and unformed. It was hazy but I knew that when I started sculpting it, it would all become clear.

Old projects would have to wait until I got this burning need out of me to create this face that haunted my dreams. I knew my hands would show me the way.

I was ready to create my first real piece now, in my own home studio, armed with my memories, my hands and the common sense advice Mike had given me. I’d even called Marty and told him what I was up to.

He’d given a booming, pleased guffaw. “That’s great, Nate. See, I told you you could do it. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I’m damn proud of you, man.”

Cody and Suzanne had come over to the studio and between them they’d created a space where I could work safely. Where everything I needed was in easy reach, where the things I’d held dear like my kiln and my pottery wheel, my work surface and my tools, were instruments of creation now and not obstacles to my own self-perceived limits.

It was time.

My fingers slid over the rough shape of the clay I’d just worked and kneaded in front of me. My fingers ached but it was a good ache. A familiar one.

I’d already placed what clay I needed over the armature, molding it into what I hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a head and shoulders. Now the real work began.

Hours later I wasn’t so sure this had been a good idea.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My fingers were sore. The skull I’d started simply didn’t feel right. I’d not been able to get the head right and in my frustration I’d knocked something off—probably a damn ear— and that piece now lay somewhere on the floor beneath my feet.

Shitfuckcrap.

Blinking sweat from my eyes, I raised one clay-smeared finger to wipe my eyes, and nearly poked my eye out. The stinging sensation and resultant floodwaters opening in my left eye caused the air to turn blue.

“Fuck. I can’t even clean my eye without damaging myself.”

I fumbled for the rag I always had on my worktop and finding it damp and clammy, raised it to my weeping eye. My other one had started tearing up now in sympathy.

Once I’d finished drying my eyes, the rag was consigned to the waste bin beside me, together with the skull, complete with armature. The thump it made as it hit the bin was satisfying and I snarled.

“Fuck. You. You messed with the wrong person today.”

It was childish, even pathetic, but it did make me feel better. Someone whistled behind me and Cody’s familiar scent assailed my nostrils.

“Bro, you are such a badass. What the hell did that thing ever do to you?”