My ruined eyes felt like they were on fire – and for all I know, they might’ve been. I could only scream. That single shriek consumed me. Strangely, I couldn’t hear my scream so much as I could feel it. My ears echoed with the intensity of my vociferous outburst. My throat went instantly raw at the sheer power of my screaming.

I must’ve passed out, because the next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital with a thick layer of gauze bandages covering my eyes. I awoke to the sound of my mother’s voice. She was talking to the doctor and the news he gave was not good.

I had lost my sight. The optic nerves were damaged so badly that a transplant was out of the question. Nevermore would I look into the mirror and frown at the sparse freckles on my face. Neither would I cringe at the crooked teeth nor the stupid dimples that made me feel even younger than I was.

The mystery deepened when the doctor found no rational explanation for the loss of my sight. None of the friends who’d been with me were able to provide anything more than what they’d seen. From their point of view, I suddenly freaked out and clawed at my eyes for no apparent reason. Optometrists visited me in the hospital, but had no better luck than anyone else.

I hated hospitals. I became sick of them after seeing my dad rot away in a sterile bed while cancer ate away at his lungs like a sack of Halloween candy. It made me feel helpless and angry, angry that no one could help him. It was a horrible way to die. I think it would’ve been better to shove the cold barrel of a gun into his mouth and pull the trigger.

My thoughts didn’t linger with the hatred of hospitals or with my own misery. It became hard to think with the screaming nearby. Apparently, they had another patient in the room with me. I didn’t know who it was but the poor guy must be feeling a lot more pain than I was.

It seemed strange that both the doctor and my mother continued their conversation as though the cries of the nearby patient meant nothing to them. This struck me as odd since my mother was one of the most caring individuals I knew.

My sight may be gone, but I remember my mother well; her voice brought the image of love into mind. She called herself overweight, a white Aunt Jemima, but I didn’t see her like that. She reminded me of a fleshly pillow, something I could curl up on and fall asleep as her thick fingers stroked my hair. Snuggled between her enormous breasts, I could hear her heart beat; at the time it was one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.

Why wouldn’t the person who was screaming just shut up for a little while? Why couldn’t he – or maybe it was a she, I can’t really be sure – just be quiet for a while? From what I could remember, a hospital was like a library. You were supposed to be quiet in both, but someone had obviously forgotten to pass on that little piece of trivia to this person.

Most kids have a low tolerance for being annoyed – at least I did. Just when I thought I’d pull out my reddish hair, I begged for someone to make the person settle down.

My mom and the doctor seemed happy that I’d finally regained consciousness. Mom wrapped her large arms around me and began to comfort me, knowing I’d be upset when I awoke. She was right; I was upset. But it sure would’ve been a lot easier to find comfort if she’d make the screaming stop. I pleaded with her to do something – anything to quiet the suffering individual, pleading for mercy.

She had no clue what I was talking about. “What voices?” she asked.

My mother is known for her compassion, not for her comedy. The tone of her voice sounded serious – as serious as the person who was screaming in horrified agony. How could anyone not hear something like that? It was a strange sensation, surreal beyond what my child-like mind could comprehend.