The Blind Man
After the age of 18, any mark placed on your skin-- whether a mark from a pen or even a scratch-- will appear on your soulmate’s body. I’ve known people to cheat. They write addresses on their skin, in an attempt to meet up with their soulmate sooner. Others simply write to their soulmate. I’ve seen some individuals who write poems, cute notes, or song lyrics. Some people draw for their soulmates. I have seen everything from intricate drawings to cute little doodles.
I stopped drawing and writing for my soulmate. At first, I would draw for them all the time. I have always been the artsy type. I hoped that my soulmate was sitting somewhere, smiling as they watched my artwork unfold onto their skin. I imagined them adorably waiting for my next drawing.
However, no matter how much I drew for them, I never received a response. There was no follow up drawing after I had finished. There was no addition to the ink on my skin.
Perhaps they weren’t the artsy type. I took up writing instead. I wrote poems for them, inspirational notes, anything and everything I could think of. Still, I received nothing. It has been 10 years, and my soulmate has not drawn or written anything for me.
Eventually, I stopped drawing for them. I began to forget that they were even there. I still draw on myself-- but only for myself.
Occasionally, when I’m writing a quick note to myself, I’ll remember that somewhere out there, my soulmate is seeing the same patterns on their skin. It is a fleeting thought, but it remains in the back of my mind nonetheless. I began to think that maybe I lacked a soulmate altogether. Everyone has to write on themselves at some point, right? Even accidentally.
“Maybe…” Karen’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Maybe your soulmate died…?”
“It’s not possible,” I say with a frown. I even believed that up until a couple years ago. I woke up one morning, feeling perfectly fine. When I looked in the mirror, I realized that I was covered in bruises and scratches. I was in a panic for hours, trying to remember what could have possibly happened. Then I realized, my soulmate was out there. It had to be my soulmate. There was no other explanation.
I always had a history of random bruises and marks. I assumed I was easily bruised, but this was too much. My soulmate had to be the one getting constantly injured.
“I’m not exactly accident prone,” I say, knowing she will remember what I am talking about.
The blonde frowns. “You’re right.” There is a brief pause as she tries to come up with something else. I already know there is nothing she can suggest that I haven’t thought of. “Well, I don’t know what to tell ya.” She takes a sip of her coffee.
“I don’t know either,” I say, standing up. “I better get going.” I no longer have a desire to sit here and talk about what could possibly be wrong with my soulmate. Maybe they just didn’t want to find me.
I say goodbye to Karen and exit the coffee shop we met up at. We recently became acquainted and were becoming friends. She said she didn’t really know many people outside of her office, and seemed eager to talk to me. Karen was nice enough and easy to talk to. For some reason, she showed a keen interest in my strange soulmate.
It is still midday, and a beautiful day might I add. I decide to walk home. I enjoy the view of Hell’s Kitchen as I walk. It could be quite beautiful from a certain perspective. I reach my apartment building after about an hour, but I decide to sit outside for a while.
I roll up my sleeve to reveal some unexplained bruising, courtesy of my soulmate. The bruises also cover my abdomen and a scratch is above my eyebrow. I conceal them to the best of my ability with clothes or makeup. I started covering them when it got out of hand. The injuries may be out of sight, but they are never out of mind. What do you do? I wonder to myself. I wish I could keep them safe. I hate not knowing what they are going through. Were they kidnapped or something? Are they in an abusive relationship? Is that why they never try to connect with me, because they can’t?
I pull a pen from my pocket and begin drawing over the many bruises. As cheesy as it sounds, I think of it as a way of kissing the pain away. I draw a row of flowers over my red knuckles. Are you watching this right now? Do you even care? Regardless, I keep on drawing.
There are times when I cry for them-- whoever they are. I’ll stand in front of the mirror and observe the bruises that cover me all over. Although I can’t ever feel anything, I know my soulmate is somewhere out there feeling every bit of that pain. Sometimes I wish I could just hold them and keep them safe from the world.
…
I don’t know how I end up at Josie’s bar, yet here I am. I pass this place all the time, but only stopped in once or twice. Josie, was a sassy woman that managed to make me laugh every time I came in. I sat at the counter and pulled out my sketchbook. There were so many unique faces in here and it gave me a chance to practice drawing. No one seemed to notice, or care for that matter. Everyone was busy living their lives.
A couple of guys sit at the bar. They are obviously regulars, because of the way they speak with Josie. I cannot seem to take my eyes off one of the men. He has dark brown hair, stubble, and a bandage over the corner of his brow that peeks out from under his dark sunglasses. He collapses his cane and I quickly put together that he is blind. I still watch as he and his companion talk.
I begin sketching the man with the round, dark glasses, trying my best to capture his features. I focus in closely as I add line after line, looking back and forth from my sketchbook and the man. I capture every little detail, including the bandage that is barely visible, adding it to the page. I’m grateful that his friend has his back slightly toward me. If not, he would definitely notice me looking at the other man.
Josie comes over to check on me and spots my drawing of the stranger. The sketch definitely shows more attention to detail than the others. She gives a small laughs and gestures her head toward him. I shake my head and quickly shut my sketchbook, feeling my heart rate pick up slightly. I glance at the men seated not too far from me once more. This time, I am surprised by what I see. I know the man is blind, yet he seems to be looking right at me. How is that even possible?
He says something quietly to his friend, causing his companion to turn around to look at me. Oh God, what if that guy isn’t blind after all. I mentally curse myself for assuming. If he isn’t, he totally caught me staring.
His friend turns completely to face me. Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. Please, don’t talk to- “I’ve never seen you in here before,” he says, “And we practically lived here at one point.” He gestures to the other man and laughs.
I smile politely, not really sure what to say. “I don’t really drink so I don’t come in here very often,” I say honestly.
“You from around here?” He asks. The blind man still remains silent but stares right at me. He almost looks as if he is studying me. But how?
“Mhmm.” I hum in response. “Moved to Hell’s Kitchen about a year ago.” I take a sip of my drink.
“Well, I’m Fogg-” He cuts himself off as his eyes drift to my hand that is gripping my closed sketchbook. He stares at the black book for a few moments before meeting my eyes once again and giving me a quizzical look. He looks at me momentarily before looking back at his friend. The blind man gives a look of confusion. I assume it is due to the sudden silence.
The man looks back at my sketchbook again, and then back at his friend-- but downward. It is only then that I realize he is not looking at my sketchbook, but at the little drawings on my knuckles.
I look down at the tiny row of flowers. My eyes then travel over to the hand of the blind man. In the hand that holds his cane, I see a tiny row of matching flowers. As I look at the parallel drawings, I am hit with a sudden realization. In that moment, everything comes together. Everything makes sense.
He’s blind.