2.

Iris's P.O.V.

​"I'm sorry, Mrs. Evans, but there is nothing more we can do at this stage for Iris," Dr. Mason says sympathetically, his hands clasped in front of him on his desk.

​I blink automatically to clear the blurry image of his face before my brain reminds me that it won't make a difference.

​I don't have to try so hard to make out Mother's expression, because I can picture it in my mind with worrying ease. Her light green eyes would be filled with tears. She would, of course, let the tears build to the point where they were just about to spill over before dabbing at them with her napkin. The tears would never topple over because Mother didn't believe in waterproof makeup and, therefore, could not afford to spoil her own.

​Her lips would be wobbling in an uncanny fashion, her wrinkles showing more with her distorted features. 

Through those tear-filled eyes, she would tell a story of a thousand years' worth of pain, a fabricated story with pain that she somehow channeled in a single moment.

​So as she sat sobbing in the chair beside me, I knew exactly what she looked like without being able to see it entirely. I didn't even need to pull myself close to her to confirm it.

​"N-No," Mother argues, her choked sobs the only sound in the room beside the ticking of the wall clock on the right side of the office. The one which hung next to an abstract canvas of art I couldn't comprehend even if I could tell the lines apart. "No. She can't be."

​Tick. Tick. Tick.

​"I can be, and I am," I say dismissively, forcing myself not to roll my eyes when she turns her head toward me. "I'm blind."

​"Iris!" she scolds, as if I'd just sold my soul to the devil and fucked him while I was at it. At that, I can't stop myself from rolling my eyes.

​I follow the ticks in my mind as the hands of the clock continue to track time, the instrument completely undisturbed. I try to match my heartbeat to the rhythmic ticking, trying to keep myself stable.

​"Sight-challenged," Dr. Mason inserts earnestly, acting like a desperate voice of reason between the two of us.

​Dr. Mason was my eighth doctor and incredibly out of his depth, giving the same speech I'd heard seven times before, just in a different fashion.

​"You have not lost all of your eyesight, Iris, and there are no signs of your condition worsening from this point," he finishes gently, as if he feared that if he wasn't careful, I'd break.

​Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

​I wouldn't.

​Silence sits between us, my mother's soft sobs now turning into snifffles as she clutches her handbag for support. As if the fucking handbag would make all her problems go away.

​"Many others would do anything to have even a fraction of their vision back, Iris," he continues, and I frown, gazing in his direction. I couldn't see his expression very well, but I could make out how close his eyebrows were. "You are very lucky."

​I slip my focus from the clock and onto my doctor, sitting up in the chair as a singular emotion slips through a small crack in me.

​Annoyance.

​"Don't," I grind through my clenched teeth, my jaws tightly bound like my body. My nails desperately sink into the leather of the armrest for support. For stability. "Please don't do that. Don't tell me I'm lucky to lose only a fraction of my eyesight. Don't do that shit."

​"I only meant that a…"

​"I'm not lucky," I snap angrily. I keep my eyes down because I couldn't meet his gaze even if I wanted to. "So don't tell me that I'm lucky. I'm not. I'm nineteen and starting from scratch. I'm not lucky; it doesn't matter if others would kill for this. I still can't see my own fingers if it's too dark, can barely find my way to the bathroom at night... this is not lucky. Neither am I visually impaired or sight-challenged. I'm fucking blind."

​Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

​Silence falls over the room for a single moment, nothing to be heard besides the ticking of the clock hand as it counted the seconds, time moving on.

​Then, my mother begins another series of sobs that make me sag back into my seat. My fingers relax on the armrest as I coax my mind into following the clock again. 

She doesn't stop, though, sobbing so hysterically I almost wish I was deaf too.

​I look in the doctor's direction before speaking again. "Does this mean I can get a guide dog now?"

***************

​I let my eyes follow the trees littered between the many buildings outside our car as our driver, Francis, moves inch by inch in the unsettling traffic.

​The once-distinguishable leaves just look like a blended glob of green from here, like many things do now. They all look like globs and blobs. If I went close enough that I could hold the leaves between my fingers and the sun was out, I could make out the separate leaves without a problem. But as I am quickly learning, you can't get that close to everything.

​To describe it best, everything looks blurry now, blended. I often blink out of habit, as if... if I did it enough, then it would all become clear and everything would go back to normal. But it never did. Things are always blurry.

​The way I see now means that a lot of things have changed for me. It means that I can't read others' facial expressions unless I am very close, uncomfortably close. I am practically a bat at night; I don't go out after seven. I can't make out most street signs until I am just below them, goodbye, driver's license. I can't read, even if I bring the book so close to my face that my nose is squished against the pages... I tried.

​I recognize faces, though. Those who I am familiar with or those with strong, prominent features are easiest for me. I can make it around my day-to-day life without much trouble or help, and I can still write because I can just about make out the blue lines on most pages.

​I hate every day of it.

​"Iris." My mother speaks, and I realize that she has been calling me for quite some time now. I look her way and frown when I hear her sniffling.

​How is it physically possible for someone to cry this much?

​"We will find you a new doctor, a better one... we'll fix this, Iris," she promises with such vigor that I almost want to believe her.

​"He was the best one," I remind her, and I clench my fist when I have to lean in a little closer to see her better. 

"We've been going from doctor to doctor for seven months now, and I'm tired, Mother."

​"Iris…"

​"There is no fixing this," I say firmly, cutting her off because I truly couldn't continue. "There is no fixing this; money can't fix this one. So can you please just... accept it?"

​She doesn't speak. Her mouth runs dry at my words… words I'd bitten back from sharing since the first day we started this. Because I owed it to her to try; I at least owed her that much. To let her try so that one day, she could tell herself that she did.

​"No," she replies, and I turn away, moving back toward my door. We don't speak anymore and the car is silent, but not for long. It doesn't take more than a minute or two until she's crying into her phone, and I already know it's my father on the other line.

​I try to convince myself to give her some slack. I suppose if I found out that my daughter was shamed for being promiscuous and lost her sight in one go, when I was a known Republican married to a man obsessed with purity and reputation, then I might be crying too. 

I didn't bother telling her that she could cross out the first problem; that wouldn't be a problem ever again.

​After all, these were just problems, weren't they? 

Problems could be fixed, that's how she saw it, that's how my father saw it... it was how I was trying to see it.

​I knew, knew from the first day what she was doing. But I wasn't strong enough to stop her from doing so after the... i-incident. She wanted to fix my eyesight with all she had because it was a permanent reminder of what I was, who I used to be. It was as if she believed that if she could fix my eyes, then she could fix that part of me too.

​But so far, we have only hit hard, brick walls.

​The car eventually pulls up at a large building, and the sound of barking can be heard even inside the vehicle. In a city so large like San Francisco, I wasn't surprised that there was a center for guide dogs and that my mother had already found it.

​"I want to go alone," I say firmly as Francis steps out of the driver's seat and stands outside.

​"Absolutely not, I'm coming with you," my mother replies, her voice filled with annoyance.

​"I want to do this alone, Mother," I repeat, and this time I try to send her the message that I really need to.

​"I won't let you get hurt," she insists.

​"It's a single building; I'm not going to break all my bones," I reply sarcastically. "I still know how to walk."

​"It's not safe, Iris."

​"Mother, I do not need you hovering over me," I argue, despite the spike in my heart rate from her words. "I'll be just fine. I can still see some. I'm not a bat."

​She chuckles briefly at this, and that seems to relax her worry a fraction. She manages a nod, and I release a breath of relief.

​I knock on the window to signal to Francis that I am ready. He opens the door instantly, and I step out, circling the car and stepping onto the sidewalk.

​"I'm going to head home. You call Francis when you're ready, and he'll come right back," my mother says after rolling down the window. I nod and don't move, watching the vehicle until it blends in with all the others.

I immediately slide my phone out of my pocket and ask Siri where the nearest pet store or shelter is. I combine her help with G****e Maps and, soon enough, I'm walking down the street.

As ​I walk past the hazed pedestrians and keep a close ear to my phone to hear every directing instruction; I couldn't afford to make a wrong turn. After all, I didn't know where I was.

​My steps slow at that, panic stringing its way through me as I look around. Being in an unfamiliar setting allows fear to fester inside of me like an uncontrolled virus. It does not help that Mother's words are repeating themselves in my head now.

​It's not safe, Iris.

​I got hurt last time I was alone like this. Last time, I got hurt really bad.

​It's not safe, Iris.

​No. No. No. No. Fuck no.

​I am not going to let myself have a fucking panic attack in the middle of the street. Absolutely not.

​I try to block out the fear of the unknown with facts about the things around me.

​I am in broad daylight.

I am safe.

There are people all around me.

I am safe.

There are shops with cameras and staff. Witnesses.

I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

​Those three words have somehow become my mantra over the last few months. Three words I have to pound into my head sometimes to relax enough to breathe. 

Three words I whispered at night beneath the sheets, repeated in the car, clutched onto in the grocery shops, ground out in the mall, cried out in the shower.

​Three words that helped me keep walking forward, despite the fear that still lingered.

​Three simple words.

​When the sound of animal noises brings me to a very crowded shelter, I relax. In front of the closed doors seems to be a petting area, with many small and big dogs happily playing with those who are passing by, I would guess. The bright blue shirts which my eyes landmarked amongst the blurred people suggested there is staff overlooking things out here.

​I maneuver through the crowd as carefully as I can, avoiding all contact whilst not bothering to try and make out the breeds of the dogs here. I enter the building and walk aimlessly through the aisles of cages before I find someone in a bright blue shirt who is free.

​"So, what exactly are you looking for?" the large man asks after we share a few formalities.

​"A Rottweiler, if you have it," I say instantly. "Or a Pit Bull. A Mastiff, even."

​"Something with a bite?" he offers.

​The man's tone tells me that he isn't fond of the stereotype people like me had with those types of dogs. I nod sheepishly, and he chuckles a little.

​"We've got pups for all those breeds, and some even a little older, more grown," he informs me, and I frown.

​"Isn't it better to get them young?" I ask mindlessly.

​I'd never had a dog growing up despite how badly I wanted one because my father was deadly allergic to them. But seeing as he is currently refusing to live in the house with me there and I am leaving it soon enough, it isn't a problem anymore.

​"Naturally, but all dogs need is a little bit of love and patience. All the dogs we have here are nothing to be afraid of," he promises and begins walking a little further into the building. "We keep the five-week-old pups in the back."

​I freeze for a moment. Ice runs up my spine as my feet refuse to go any further, my heart racing and my chest clamping down around it.

​He turns and looks at me. I can't read his expression, and for once I'm grateful. I didn't want to see the look of confusion or judgment on it.

​"Is everything okay?" he asks, and I nod instantly, forcing myself to smile while I look at the people around us. 

There are bright blues all around, presumably customers and animal lovers walking the same path he is leading me through.

​I am safe.

​I take one step forward, and then another, until my legs are forcing me forward despite the irrationality in my mind. I can feel the man's eyes on me as I approach, but he doesn't say anything and continues on his path.

​"I'd like a pup," I confirm, and I barely catch the nod of understanding he makes.

​I didn't like telling people I couldn't really see them unless it was absolutely necessary. They started acting differently when I did, their voices filled with sympathy and pity, handling me like a fragile creature.

​I hated it. Hated the way something that I couldn't change suddenly made me less human, irregular... different. God, it was frustrating.

​We enter a larger room than I expected, which is filled with nothing but small, open-topped pens on the floor with several puppies filling each one. It seems they separated them by breed, seeing as each pen has puppies of different colors that I can barely make out.

​The room has other people in it, which relaxes my nerves some as I continue to follow the man with less tension in my bones.

​"We have four Rottweiler pups left; two girls and two boys," he says over his shoulder before he comes to a stop. I barely catch myself from crashing into him as he stops in front of a pen of black and brown pups.

​My breathing picks up as I take a few steps back to distance us, but he doesn't seem to notice as he squats down to reach the pups. They jump and yip for the man as he gets closer to them, offering a playful hand to pet them as they climb over one another to reach it. I quickly kneel down beside him to get a better look, yet I only count three near him.

​I check four times, blinking foolishly to make sure I counted right. I had. Looking around the pen, I spot the last pup against a corner and wonder if she is sleeping or just not a people person.

​"We call her Sassy. She's got a bit of an attitude with people," he says beside me, and I assume that he saw where I was looking. I move away from him on instinct.

​I offer a hand to Sassy, but she doesn't come closer. I don't make a move to scoop her up and go any closer, just keep it there and wait. Yet, she still doesn't move.

​My arm begins to ache from the waiting, and just as I am about to pull away, a small, wet nose brushes my fingertips. I keep still as my chest fills with joy and excitement begins to pool inside of me. A prodding tongue licks my finger, and I try picking her up; she comes easily.

​I pull her to me and smile as I pet the mellow pup that isn't reeling from the attention or denying it. Almost like a cat. I chuckle at that. She is fluffy and big, black all over despite the genetically placed brown over her eyes, mouth, and chest.

​I knew Rottweilers weren't the ideal guide dogs, but I didn't want a guide dog. I didn't need one. I didn't want a dog meant to help me get around; I didn't need that kind of help. I didn't need a service animal for that type of aid, I needed one to protect me.

​I needed something that would hurt anything and anyone who tried to do the same to me. I needed an animal which wouldn't let me feel pain. A dog to fight for me and love me all the same, one that would calm the fear.

​I needed something deadly where I naturally wasn't. 

Needed something vicious at my side if the time ever came again, something that wouldn't let me get hurt again.

​"I want this one."

____________________________________________

A/N: ​Iris! Mystery... what happened to her? I want to know - says the damn writer lmfao.

​Are we liking Iris? Think she'll mesh well with Lucian???

Let me know all your thoughts in the comments! Like, subscribe and add to your library so you never miss an update!

See you in the next one!