Fake Blindness

I am eighteen years old. In the advanced stage of cancer, the doctor said I don't have much time left. I stood by the window in the hospital corridor, looking at the gray sky outside. There was no sorrow, only a calm sense of finality. It seemed that this world had never belonged to me. Since I could remember, there has been no place for me in the family. After my mother married my stepfather James Clark, her eyes were only on his two children—my elder brother Jason Clark and younger sister Tina Clark. Jason was a special presence in the family; he was blind. At least, that's what everyone thought. My mother always said, "Jason can't see, so we should be more tolerate with him." My stepfather spoiled him like a fragile porcelain doll, giving him the best of everything first. Tina was the little princess of the family—arrogant and mean. Her favorite thing to do was team up with Jason to bully me. I got used to being ignored, to being pushed around, to going hungry. I didn't tell anyone about the cancer diagnosis. What's the point? It would only earn me their impatience and ridicule. I thought, if living has no meaning for me, then in death, I should at least do something. Jason was blind. My corneas might let him see the world. This would be my last contribution to this family. I contacted the hospital and scheduled the cornea donation surgery. The day of the surgery was New Year's Eve. The ward was quiet, except for the ticking of medical equipment. I called my mother. The other end was noisy, with music and Tina's laughter. "Mom, I'm having surgery today," I said softly. "Surgery? What kind of surgery?" My mother's voice was impatient. "Cornea donation—for Jason." There was a moment of silence on the line, followed by my mother's sneer. "Wendy Lincoln, you really know how to play the good guy." "Jason doesn't need it. Stop being hypocritical." "We're celebrating New Year's Eve with Tina right now. We don't have time for you. Handle it yourself." The call was hastily ended, leaving only a busy tone in the receiver. I held the phone, and my hand slowly dropped. I should have known, shouldn't I? I walked to the ward door and heard nurses whispering in the corridor. "That Wendy Lincoln is so pitiful—donating her corneas even in the advanced stage of cancer." "I know. Her family doesn't care about her at all. The way her mother spoke on the phone was heartbreaking." "I heard her brother is blind. Her family gives all the good things to him and his sister, while she's like an outsider." "Sigh, what a tragedy." I leaned against the wall, and tears finally fell. Not from pain, but from despair. I thought that by donating my corneas, I could at least earn a shred of their concern. Turns out, I had been redundant all along. I returned to the hospital bed and curled up under the covers.