Gingerbread Man

in my stupid sightless eyes. Damn, I did not cry. Not ever. And if I ever did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in front of anyone. Thank God I was still wearing my sunglasses. "I don’t want to believe it just to have it go bad again, Doc. Not this time. It would be more than I can take."
    Revealing my soft underbelly was not something I did often. But she wasn’t allowed to tell, right? She was a doctor.
    "But you
have to
believe if you ever want anything to change. Isn’t that what you’re always writing about? How it’s the belief that creates the reality, and not the other way around."
    Right. Like I was twelve and somehow believed my way into twenty years of blindness right? I would probably go to hell for the bullshit I sold to the gullible.
    "How long before I’ll be able to look at my sister’s face?"
    She patted my hand. "Tomorrow, if all goes well. And better than the other times, right off the bat, with full recovery in two to three months."
    "Tomorrow. I’ll be able to see my sister’s face again…tomorrow." I lowered my head, shook it slowly. Even if it didn’t last, I’d have that. I just didn’t know if I could handle the letdown if it was only temporary. You might think temporary vision is better than none at all, but you haven’t been there. I have. It sucks.
    "It’ll work for you this time, Rachel. I honestly believe that."
    Yes, she honestly did. I sighed, and she knew I was going to give in. "If I believed in miracles, I’d think this was one."
    But of course I didn’t. And as it turned out, it wasn’t.

3
----

    ERIC THOUGHT HE had blown it. He was pretty sure of it, in fact. At first he’d been in oblivion, but then a sound had brought him back. The sound of the rat, scratching, biting. It wasn’t digging its way through the wall. It had escaped that prison. Eric had blown a hole through the wall. Into his own head.
    So how could he be aware of anything, then? Aware but immobile, aware but in full sensory deprivation. What was this? Was this hell?
    He’d intended to be dead, to kill the rat, not to let it out. But it was free. And scratching now to let him know it.
    "I know it was my fault," Jeremy said.
    That voice, those words, snapped his attention away from the rat’s merciless, incessant claws inside him. His focus turned outside, as much as it could, anyway. He couldn’t see anything. His eyes were closed, and though he tried to open them, he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel much either, and he supposed that was a good thing, because he’d blown half his head off earlier today. Or was it yesterday? Or a week ago? Or a year?
    Steady beeping,
beep, beep, beep
. The sound of Darth Vader breathing in his ear. A rhythmic thumping. And that voice.
    Jeremy’s voice.
    "I shouldn’t have yelled at you for forgetting we were coming home. But you didn’t have to do this, Dad. You didn’t have to do this."
    It wasn’t your fault, son.
    Damn, why couldn’t he tell him?
    Scratch, scratch, scratch.
    "Are you all right, Jer?"
    That was Marie. She was standing close, he could tell.
    "They’re gonna cut him up, Mom. How can you let them do that?"
    Joshua’s sobbing, which he realized had been soft background noise, took a turn for the louder. He felt like joining his younger son. What the hell were they talking about, cutting him up?
    "This is no place for the boys." That was Mother. She was patting someone’s hand. From the location, he thought it might be his own, but he couldn’t feel it, only hear the sound. Smack, smack, smack. "I’m sorry I didn’t do better by you, Eric. I hope you’ll find peace in the afterlife."
    "Josh, Jeremy, it’s important that you guys understand something here." That voice belonged to his kid brother. Mason.
    Mason had been yelling at him earlier. He remembered that vaguely, but had no idea when it had happened and barely recalled what he’d said. Oh, right. He was mad that Eric had waited for him to get there to shoot himself. He had it all wrong, of course. He’d been
trying
to do it before Mason got there. He’d just run out of time.
    Go on,
he thought at Mason.
Tell the boys something. Anything to make them feel better. You always know what to say.
    "Your dad’s already gone."
    No! I’m not gone, I’m right here. And so is the rat. Scratching me bloody, the damned thing. Why is it so hyper?
Why is it still tormenting me now that it’s free? It has what it wanted.
    "He’s already gone," Mason repeated. "Those machines are forcing