.The Price of Sight.

A Solitary Magick

.The Price Of Sight

I was once walking home from the corner store near my apartment, when I saw a grubby looking vagrant staring at me with an uncomfortable amount of intent in his eyes. He made me nervous. His beard was shabby and long. His clothes, worn and ragged. Dirty. His skin was several shades darker than it should've been due to the dirt and grime he'd accumulated over weeks or days or months.

I straightened my shoulders and puffed out my chest a bit, but the show of power didn't phase the man in the least. I walked faster, and, now that I was more than sure something about me had garnered his undivided attention, I became hypervigilant of everything in my surroundings.

It had been dusk. The end of a warm day in Texas. It must have been towards the end of summer; late August, I would say. I watched as leaves from high reaching shade trees fluttered down like feathers as they landed on the sidewalk. One brushed against my leg and I jumped to avoid it mid-stride.

"Hey," I heard a gruff voice from behind me. The sound hit me straight in the back of the neck, making the hairs there stand straight up. I ignored the voice.

"Hey, girl..." The voice came again.

I noticed pedestrians jogging on the other side of the street. Earbuds securely crammed into their heads, armband holding tight to their cellphones despite being jostled by their movement. They couldn't help me if I turned around to answer. I used to be so fucking gullible. A voice aimed in my direction would immediately turn my head in its direction, blindly, instinctually. Carelessly. But I was beginning to learn my lesson: "DO NOT GIVE ANY PEOPLE ATTENTION OF ANY KIND ON THE STREET".

It seems like a sour rule written by a bitter person, but in my case today, it was especially true.

"Miss," the bum nearly yelled this time. His voice wasn't immediately off putting. In fact, it seemed to have a touch of purpose to it, which made it even harder to keep my eyes in front of me; all the while focusing my peripheral vision on the possible threat at my back. "Miss," he said. "I just want to tell you something. Please, I mean you no harm."

I could hear the man struggling to catch his breath. the pace at which I was walking proved to be more than he was capable of matching past a certain point.

I turned then, trepidation furrowing my brow, my better judgment yelling at me from within, a klaxon of flashing red lights pulsating in my mind's eye. Warning me not to show compassion or give this creature speaking to me the benefit of the doubt. But I didn't listen. Instead, I put my hand firmly in the air. The universal symbol for 'stop, you've come close enough' and I asked him what he wanted.

"Ma'am, I know my appearance is," he paused for half a breath. "Scary. Intimidating. But I would tell you something I've seen that concerns you, if you're willing to listen."

I frowned. "Something you saw?" I asked. Was he implying he was psychic? A shunned clairvoyant? I imagined that being the reason for him being on the streets; too psychic for regular, mundane living. Possibly diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia or severe post-traumatic syndrome complete with delusions and hallucinations. Or, most likely, this was some kind of con, and I was just too naïve to see it until it would be too late.

"What would you tell me?"

"I can see a lot of darkness on you, uh, pain," he squinted as if trying to see, or trying to find the words to convey. "You have the gift like me. The gift of sight."

"Ah," I wouldn't lie about being slightly disappointed byt the old man's incites. Of course he could see pain on me. And trauma. I had a medical condition commonly reffered to as 'been through the fuckin' wringer'. It was always apparent. Anybody who shot me half a glance could see the signs.

I'm always looking at the ground like a cowed dog, too scared to risk looking its owner in the eyes for fear of a beating. In my experience, those who are most unhinged turn innocent locking of eyes into a power battle that I always lose. It's like laying chicken with Cthulhu. It's just something I tried not to do.

If I were robbed at gunpoint, the thing most likely to come out of my mouth would be an apology, like a fucking idiot. "Sorry for taking too long to hand you my wallet, Mr. Robber. Can I offer you my watch to make up for your inconvenience?", or, "I'm so so sorry for spraying you with viscera when you shot me; I should have been more careful of the direction I passed out in. How horrible for you that you had to go through that, getting misted with someone else's blood is the worst."

I hated the way I was. I thought about how to make it go away or how to quit being so 'pleasing' all the time, but I never had any luck. If I kept to myself, things were easier. Whenever I was around other people, I always ended up putting their needs first, walking in their shoes and feeling their particular brand of fucked up emotional baggage.

"Sight?" I scoffed. "I don't think so, but I appreciate you taking the time to, uh," I quickly searched my database of arbitrary things to say to strangers that 'sound nice' but really mean nothing. "Speak your truth." I finished, shakily.

I nodded a 'good day' to him and turned on my heel, back toward the direction of my apartment complex. I could see the front gates and the guard shack from where I was standing. It made me feel a tiny bit safer, even though seeing a perceived place of safety means absolutely nothing if you're about to be brutally attacked.

"No, wait!" the man interjected before I could take more than a few steps away from him. "I am honor bound to tell you of the truth." He was at my side in the blink of an eye. He grabbed my arm; gently, but it horrified me.

Terror radiated from my gut like a starburst of doom. My body began to shake. Sweat beads popped up on my forehead, the small of my back, my underarms, my crotch; like fucking daises.