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The thought of someone selling one of my purest creations for monetary gain left a sour fucking taste in my mouth, and as a result, I’m starting to despise every single potential buyer. Do they love art? Or do they see an investment piece that, when turned over, will buy them a house they don’t need or a fucking Lamborghini they won’t drive?
Art is meant to affect your heart, your mind, your goddamn soul.
Not serve as a conduit for a bigger bank account.
Bunch of greedy fucking bastards…
“Who’s interested?”
“Well…” Bram clears his throat. “Lyle Jacobs.”
An NBA basketball player who wouldn’t know real art from his asshole.
“Carly May.”
A reality TV star who probably thinks Mona Lisa is a pop singer.
“Jeff Simmons.”
A pretentious billionaire who has more money than any one human being needs. He’s flashy and ostentatious, and he wouldn’t know true art if it smacked him across the fucking face.
“Not interested.”
“They’re offering a lot of money—”
“It’s not about the money,” I mutter. “They and their money can go fuck themselves.”
Bram sighs and laughs at the same time. “God, Ans, could you be any more of a dick?”
“If I tried hard enough?” I shrug. “Probably.”
Thankfully, Bram gets wise and drops the subject altogether.
“Are you taking me to my appointment today?” I ask as I carefully pour myself a cup of coffee.
Another pointless appointment where the doctor confirms what I already know all too fucking well. Yeah, Doc, I get it. I can’t see.
“Yeah.”
“You do realize it’s not until four, right?”
“Also yes,” he says, stepping into my body, grabbing my hand, and directing the pot of coffee back to the machine I would have missed on my own. “But don’t worry, I have to leave to meet my band for a few hours, and then I’ll be back to get you around three.”
“When are you going on tour again, Mom?” I tease halfheartedly. It’s either that or cry. Fucking hell, I hate what my life has become.
“Not until summer, you ornery prick.”
“I’ll start counting down the days.”
“You’re an asshole.”
I am, I know. I really know.
After a long commute across town, both Bram and I reach Dr. Smith’s Manhattan office right on time.
A world-renowned eye surgeon, he’s one of the physicians who has been following my case since I lost my sight.
The instant we step inside, the receptionist ushers us into a room and tells us the doctor is finishing up with a patient and will be in shortly.
So, we sit and wait.
And wait.
And I quickly remember that a doctor’s version of shortly isn’t the same as the rest of us.
It’s been no less than thirty minutes by the time he makes his grand entrance into the room.
Well, I’m assuming it’s grand, but I have to assume a lot of things these days.
“Ansel,” Dr. Smith greets, and the sound of a door clicking shut echoes off the walls. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I’d say the same, but we all know I can’t see.”
“Jesus,” Bram mutters. He probably meant for it to be under his breath, but it’s really true what they say. Losing one sense heightens the others.
“Still heavy with the sarcasm, I see,” the doc says through a chuckle, after which the room grows quiet for a moment. No sarcastic remarks from my brother and no sounds of movement from the doctor as he’s obviously settled behind his desk.
Quiet stretches like this make me uncomfortable. Without sound to guide me, the black behind my lids seems endless.
“Dark humor at my eyes’ expense is about the only thing that gets me through these days,” I admit to cut off the silence.
It has just the effect I desired. Bram swallows loudly and shuffles his foot on the rug, and Dr. Smith starts typing something on his laptop. At least, I assume that’s what the clacking sound I hear is.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding and mentally picture what his notes might look like.
Thirty-year-old patient is still blind, sarcastic, and a dick.
I nearly laugh.
“Is there a specific reason you wanted to see Ansel today?” my brother asks, and the doctor clears his throat.
“Well, I have some news,” he says. “After eight long months, we’ve received approval.”
“Approval?” I ask.
“For a bilateral transplant,” he answers.
“I’m sorry, what?” I can barely keep my voice steady. I’m surprised and, worse yet, hopeful. Somehow, I push the question past the clog in my throat anyway. “Are you talking about an eye transplant?”
“I am,” he confirms.
“But I thought that wasn’t possible?” Bram chimes in.
“It wasn’t a year ago, but it is now,” he explains. “Ansel would be one of the first in the country.”
“Are you fucking with me right now, Doc?” My breathing is erratic and forced and so loud, I’m almost certain I’m not the only one in the room who can hear it.
“No,” he says and then adds, “Ansel, we can make you see again.”
