The World Beyond the Thick Lenses
I’m one of those geeky kids. The kind who has been with you from kindergarten to high school, donning eyeglasses with frames that devoured half of my face, unceasingly branded as four-eyed, nerd, geek — you name it.
At least, that’s what they say.
As far as I’m concerned, I’m pretty normal. I played the same games as my classmates, watched the same movies, even read the same books (Harry Potter, my geeky literary counterpart!).
But they never see things that way, these dim-witted brats, especially when I was much younger.
For them, eyeglasses were synonymous with being extra weird, which meant that they had to be extra careful around me, which inevitably resulted to me having very few friends. (It didn’t help that I was actually quite odder than normal, I might as well tell you that.)
It’s not like there was something I could do about it, though. I have never known a time when I didn’t wear my glasses. If we don’t have pictures to prove me otherwise, I would even be compelled to believe that I wore glasses as a baby! These specs are a part of my body; not just any appendage, but a necessity.
One time, however, when I was in first grade and had grown tired of my classmates’ never-ending mockery of my appearance, I rebelliously left my glasses at home.
I was nonplussed.
I could still remember my amazement. It was as if I was surveying the world for the first time. I could see even without my glasses — the writings on the blackboard, the disbelief on my classmates’ faces, and my Mom’s look of unspoken rage when she fetched me that afternoon.
I had prepared my strings of complaints already, the top of them being, why do I even have to wear glasses? But the coldness on her face immediately stopped me.
Later at home, Mom spanked me for the first and only time in my life. She reprimanded me in her laconic way, which hurt even more.
I should never do that again, she said. If I didn’t wear my glasses again, horrifying consequences could happen in the future.
After all, she told me I had a disease that was too complicated for my age. I could be blind. I could have an operation. I cried myself to sleep. I learned my lesson, and learned it well.
Always, always wear your glasses.
I had formed the habit. But like all habits, you can’t really stick to them all the time. Eventually, for some reason or another, you’ll have to break them.
Which is what happened to me.
It was around the time I started dating. In secret, of course. I was still a high school senior then, and my parents were, to put it mildly, rather strict.
Lucas and I weren’t officially going out yet, but we might as well be. We texted each other every time we had the opportunity. We talked all night over the phone until our voices became raspy, until our worn-out eyes begged for release.
For the first time, someone didn’t think that I was too geeky or anything. Someone appreciated me for who I was; he was, in fact, amused at my ability to recite some lines from Shakespeare’s plays with precision and feeling, at my poor attempts at spoken word, at my eclectic music taste, and many more.
It was a splendid feeling, and I reveled in it.
It was also around that time when I started to be more absent-minded, more light-headed. I guess that’s what love could do to you.
It was the first time that I forgot my glasses at home, after removing them to wipe some sweat from my face and to get rid of the smudges on the lenses. At that moment, though, Lucas called, saying he was already at our meeting place, and so I became a bit too jumpy and left my glasses on my dresser table.
I didn’t notice anything amiss, after all, my eyesight was still as good as ever. But Lucas did, and he told me I was so pretty without my glasses, but prettier, perhaps, when I wore them, and that he liked me either way.
It was about sunset when we met. The sky was iridescent, drowning us in hues of violets and oranges and pinks.
It was silent, too, a beautiful kind of silence that swathed us with warmth, the kind of silence when you knew someone so intimately that words weren’t necessary.
There was hardly anyone at the playground, which was a welcome change. No children yelping. No other couples. There was only the chirping of birds and the distant, muted sound of vehicles.
Everything seemed so far away, like we were suspended in our own time and world.
Yes, it was a glorious day when I had my first kiss.
I could remember everything clearly. After that, we just held each other’s hands. I started reciting some lines from Romeo and Juliet.
He just listened, smiling every now and then. And then we started talking in a low voice, as though afraid someone might overhear, even though we were trapped in our own worlds.
And then, before we even knew it, it was evening already, the sky a canvas of unadulterated blackness and blueness. And that was when everything went wrong.
I suddenly had an aching sensation on my head, a mild throbbing in my temples. I closed my eyes for a while, waiting for the pain to go away. When I opened them again, I saw something white hovering above Lucas’ head.
7/26/2016.
The date tomorrow.
And then an image flashed in my head — Lucas being hit by a truck. In gory details. His head exploding, the blood splattering, his limbs being torn apart.
When it was over, he lay on his pool of blood, a mass of skin and clothes. People started to flank him.
And then there was Lucas before me, his forehead creased in worry. I threw my arms around him and then I was crying hard.
I never told him what was wrong. He just led me home wordlessly, while I, on the other hand, tried to process everything that I just learned. About him. About the other people around me. About myself.
I tried not to look at people on the way home; I tried to ignore the dates on their heads and the grisly scenes of death. I was shivering. I was cold. I didn’t know what to feel.
When I opened the front door, my parents were waiting for me. Mom was livid, Dad was pale, holding my glasses gingerly between my hands.
I walked towards them boldly. They had a lot of explaining to do.
This story is based on a writing prompt that I stumbled upon on Pinterest. It goes like this:
For as long as you can remember, you’ve always worn eyeglasses. Your parents made sure you had them on and you formed the habit. One day you forget them and you realize you can see something that no one else can.
