“And your hair?” she asked breathlessly.
“It’s similar to yours, but not as rich. Yours catches different shades of red in the light. Mine is just brown. Lighter than yours.”
“And your eyes?” she asked eagerly. “What colour?”
“Brown.”
“Same as mine,” she breathed.
“No, mine are lighter. Yours are like dark velvet, very expressive.”
She thought about that for a moment. How alike they were, but also different. “Do you have any tattoos?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “Have enough knife and bullet wounds. Don’t need to pay someone to add more holes.”
She didn’t really know what to say to that so she said the first thing that came to mind, “I don’t have any either.”
“I’m aware.”
Of course. He’d seen every inch of her body. Sometimes the sighted forgot that she was blind and conversely, sometimes she forgot the sighted weren’t blind. She realized her window of opportunity for questions was closing so she needed to move on to less safe territory before he shut her down.
“What about your parents?” she asked, barely daring to breath.
“Don’t know who my father was and I doubt my mother ever knew either. She was a street prostitute. Dead now,” he said, his voice hard.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he grunted. “She sold me when I was eight.”
Horror filled Addison. She tried not to let it show on her face, but she was never good at hiding her expressions. She tried to drop her face and curtain her expression with her hair, but he stopped her.
“Don’t,” he snapped, “do me the disservice of hiding your disgust.”
Her head snapped up and her eyes widened. “Never,” she gasped. She flew out of her chair, dropping her wineglass onto the coffee table and going onto her knees in front of him. He tried to move back so she couldn’t touch him. So instead of touching him she simply pressed herself against the couch at his feet and looked up at him. “I could never feel disgust.”
“Don’t want your fucking pity either,” he snarled, catching her by the back of the head and shaking her like a rag doll.
“No, no!” she shook her head. “Look at me, look at my face. I can't hide from you Daniel. Tell me what my face says?”
She could feel his eyes on her, searching her face. He sighed heavily, his fingers easing their tense hold on her hair, “I don't know, Addison.”
She reached up and touched his leg gently. “It’s empathy, that’s all. I would never wish that fate on anyone, especially a kid. If you had the chance to save another kid from a similar fate, would you save them?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“Then you can feel empathy for that kid too,” she said softly. “Not pity or disgust. Just sorrow and pain.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. She could feel his chest collapsing and expanding as he processed her simple words. He was a tough man. The toughest she knew. Heck, he was the toughest she could imagine. He had buried those memories so deep they were never allowed to see the light of day. Now, with her, he was taking the first tentative steps toward healing. She felt him nod and his hand absently start to stroke a path from her head, down her back and up again. It felt really good.
“Ask your questions,” he said. “You’re running out of time.”
She smiled and racked her brain for more questions. He was right! She needed to take advantage of this unique opportunity. “How many languages can you speak?”
“Five fluently, three less fluently,” he admitted.
“Eight languages!” she gasped. “You could be an ambassador or something for the United Nations. That’s incredible, Daniel!”
He shrugged. “This pays a lot more.”
