DAMOND CHRIS
The weight of my mother's concern pressed down on us as she delivered the doctor's diagnosis. The news struck like a thunderclap: my cornea was intact, which meant I faced the terrifying prospect of potentially living in darkness. A chilling 50/50 chance hung over me—would I regain my vision, or was I destined for permanent blindness? The thought of needing a cornea transplant loomed like a storm cloud, each passing moment amplifying my fears about finding a suitable donor. The doctor's reassurances felt inadequate as anxiety gnawed at me: would there come a day when I could lift my eyelids and see the world bathed in light again? For now, I had to keep my injured eye covered, clinging desperately to the hope that it might speed up the healing process.
Yet, my worries felt small compared to Desmond's dire situation. His condition was a nightmare that threatened to engulf our family whole. With only a 30 percent chance of waking up, the weight of that statistic was suffocating, making it hard to draw a breath as I grappled with the chilling possibility of losing him forever.
In the weeks that followed, our maid became my lifeline. With school on hold, she guided me through the labyrinth of life without sight, her support a beacon in my darkness. Days melted into weeks, and before I knew it, three months had passed in a blur of uncertainty and despair. My eyes showed no signs of improvement, and I succumbed to the heartbreaking decision to abandon my education completely. In my frustration, my parents arranged for a home tutor—audio lessons became my new way of learning—but the longing for a normal school experience felt like an insurmountable mountain standing between me and the life I once knew.
Time slipped by, and despair settled in like a heavy fog. A year passed, and Desmond remained ensnared in his silent battle, his condition stagnant as whispers of his bleak prognosis danced through the hospital corridors. Each day he lay in that sterile bed felt like an eternity stretching out before us. My stubborn eyes refused to betray any sign of healing; it felt as though they were playing a cruel trick, keeping me locked away from the beauty of the world. My mother clung to hope like a fragile thread, even as the shadows of reality loomed larger around us. The identity of the person responsible for our shattered lives remained a mystery, a haunting thought that played like a disturbing film reel in my mind.
In a moment of desperate helplessness, Dad proposed a controversial and almost forbidden idea: moving Desmond home, concealing him in a hidden room even our loyal maid wouldn't know about. Rooted in our grief, this plan felt like a desperate act of love, a last-ditch effort to reclaim some semblance of normalcy.
Twenty years slipped through our fingers in what felt like the blink of an eye. With each passing year, we watched over Desmond, his once-vibrant spirit dormant in a body that resembled an empty shell. My mother poured herself into studying his stillness, but each effort seemed futile. Deep down, I was overcome by a profound sorrow; Desmond's soul had likely departed long ago, leaving us to grapple with the echoes of what once was. We maintained our ritual of visiting him daily, each encounter demanding emotional strength I wasn't sure I could muster. I resigned myself to the belief that he would never awaken, accepting his quiet death as the only truth that remained. The doctors' reassurances felt increasingly hollow, and hope for my own eyesight began to dim. I slowly released my dreams of seeing again, of Desmond waking up, comforting myself with the notion that dreams are nothing more than beautiful illusions—forever out of reach.
Desmond had once been the luminous heir to our family's tech empire, a rising star destined to make waves in the business world. His brilliance and innate talent were palpable, and I often pondered how far he would have soared had fate not intervened. Nostalgia wrapped around my heart, reminding me he should be thriving in his career by now. Yet, I found myself questioning the very fabric of existence—was this truly how our lives were meant to unfold? Our destinies had been irrevocably changed, and it felt as though he had reached his final destination far too soon.
Desmond, could you ever find your way back to us? Was there still a glimmer of hope for you to reclaim the life that was so cruelly snatched away?
Note: Damond's eyesight has not suffered any injuries. The accident he experienced earlier was related to his vision, but he has since received treatment and everything appears to be fine now. However, after undergoing numerous tests, he still faces some challenges in fully regaining his vision.It seems like something isn't quite right.