Can You See Me?

“Are you there, God? It’s me”

The empty desolate room holds not even a whisper of the vibrant family home it no doubt used to be. The fresh winter air bites at my exposed face as i carefully kneel down on the cement floor.

“I pray often you know” Agony strikes across my face and i wince.

“I didn’t know you had this in store for me” I close my eyes, but my eyelids which are half gone prevent me from doing so completely. My eyes now dry as the desert, leak near constant tears in the feeble attempt to help.

“My eyes hurt” I say aloud. My voice wobbles, the sound meekly echoing in the room. Even to my own ears, I can hear the despair.

“Half my face…..gone….lost amongst the soldiers on the battlefield. Sometimes….” My voice breaks “sometimes i wish i lost myself there too”

I hear the wind pick up the dirt and dead leaves, scatter them across the room.

“I just know people look at me, as if I’m a monster. A freak. I can’t help but start to believe them”

Yesterday, a mother came to visit her son. As she passed my bed on the way, the look of horror was so evident it scalded me like boiling water.

My head hangs at these words. Today is my 23rd birthday, yet i don’t want to spend it with anyone. I don’t want my face to be shown. This abandoned house that sits across the road from the hospital has now become my hiding place.

“The surgeon says I should hold off the next procedure. Apparently the chances of infection are high. ”

Tears flow down my cheeks, my eyes swimming in sorrow.

“I - I said i don’t care. That I need my face back. My wife…. She is determined to visit me”

My throat constricts, my skin pulled taunt over my face. I look down at my clasped hands resting on my thighs. I’m wearing slacks, they hide the scars. A whole section of skin missing there. They grab the skin from the legs, from the arms. It now makes up half my forehead. I swallow.

I told her she couldn’t. Not until Christmas at least”

She doesn’t know how bad it is. If she were to make the travel and set foot into that hospital she would no doubt walk right past me; searching for a face that no longer exists

“I was hoping……hoping you may give me strength for what’s to come, so that i can greet my wife””

I strain to hear anything. Hear his voice. Nothing.

“Please”

I bend down, bony back curving, until my forehead meets my clasped hands.

“Please God, I need your help”

The surgery takes place two days after my birthday. The nurses wheel me down the hallway. The wooden floor is uneven. The hospital used to be a mansion belonging to a successful politician who gave up this home so that a hospital could be built. A days drive away from the battlefield. Two stories, with eight rooms with lots of windows that let in the sunlight. The studio downstairs at the far wing has now been converted to the operating theatre. The wheels of my bed spin, veering me sharply to the left. Before my bed collides with the wall, the nurse steers it straight with a huff.

I don’t say anything. Too rattled with nerves. Half of me disappointed that I wasn’t smashed into the plastered wall and killed by the collision.

My bony fingers that once pulled the trigger with unrelenting strength now picks at a loose thread of my blanket.

“Richard” The surgeon says as way of greeting when I’m finally wheeled into the room.

“Sir” I nod. He’s dressed head to toe in blue scrubs, my eye lids lower than lift. In that half blink i can see my blood splattered all over the crisp clothes. He’s already got gloves on, and he holds them up as three nurses rush around prepping the room.

“You look good son”

I dip my head in way of responding. I can see the regret etched in his face. He doesn’t want to do this. I said i would rather die then look like this. It seemed that remark prompted him to agree taking on this surgery.

George Burrows has haunted both my nightmares and dreams. Whenever Burrows visits us to examine our recovery, he is kind and gentle. Delivering well placed compliments to uplift our rather sour moods. The other day, he approached Derek Junior who lies to my right and said “Jawline sharp as a tack there Junior”

Junior lost his bottom jaw from a bullet wound that tore through one side of his face and out the other.

The nurses take away my pillow, gingerly lowering me down flat on my back. The ceiling is painted sky blue.

Dr Burrows face appears in my view. A mask covers his lower face.

“We’ll be fixing up those eye lids and nose today”

He lifts a photo up. “What you think about this kind of nose? Roman. Straight bridge?”

I smile, somehow in the most darkest days he’s able to get a smile out of me.

“Sounds good Doc”

He nods and disappears from view.

And as i wait to be put under i whisper my prayers.

“God, it’s me…..lend a helping hand to Doctor Burrows, give us strength for the hours to come”

The surgery lasts for twelve hours. They used the delicate skin on the inside of my forearm to form the rest of my eyelids. The two open holes in the centre of my face, now resemble a nose according to Burrows. He hasn’t shown me a mirror yet. I’m grateful. I don’t think I’m quite ready yet. The nurses do well to hide any reflective surfaces. Even the windows in some of the rooms have been covered by thin cloths that allow light to flow through but prevent the soldiers from seeing their reflection in the glass. It’s a blessing.

My face feels as if someone plundered it with a hammer. When i said this to Doctor Burrows he laughed and told me it’s lucky it’s not worse.

He laughs so freely this man, but you can see the exhaustion in his face. He works night and day.

And then the gruelling process begins. Nurses come by every day to examine the bandages. Clean the wounds on my arms. Drip warm water over my eyes. I can’t see anything. I’m under strict orders to keep my eyes closed.

A nurse said i was lucky. I was in the deep midst of a fever, body swelling and sweating underneath the cotton blanket. And she had floated over and placed a much needed cold cloth over my forehead. And as my teeth clattered and my eyes watered beneath the bandages she whispered that i was lucky to have survived such a blast in the first place. That i was strong. And my wife was a lucky woman. My jaw was so tight, muscles so taunt i couldn’t say the truth. That neither of us were lucky. If we were, my wife would still have a handsome husband. That the lucky ones are the soldiers that died in the blast. That i so desperately wish I could join them, yet my stubbornness refused to let me have that reprieve.

“God…It’s me. I’m still hanging on”

And so the days go by one after the other in darkness. I talk to Derek Junior, whose words slur and slosh together. At first it was difficult to understand him. But i think my hearing has improved, now that my sight has been removed. He tells me what he’s painting and describes the colours in vivid detail. I asked him how he can be in such high spirits to which he responded “i still have my hands. I can still paint. My face isn’t for me. It’s for other people. And i don’t care what they think”.

Nurse Scarlet who has been here since the very beginning reads me the letters my wife sends me. She tells me she loves me. That she misses me. And counts the days in which we can be together again. Sometimes her words uplifts me. Other times they stab at the reminder that she doesn’t know what i look like now. I have become an insecure prepubescent boy again.

At night, i clasp my hands together to my chest and whisper my prayers.

“God, it’s me. How are my eyelids?”

Two months later and i can now effectively blink. I’m in high spirits. But then it happens. Derek Junior is helping me shave when i see it. My reflection. He knows instantly. My eyes fixed on the silver razor. My hopes crash, fall apart like a ship set sail. The hull cracking into smithereens and left to float in the sea before sinking to its depths. Derek sits next to me, as i wail. The sobs leaving my dry lips, the force hurting my face. And all the while I say i can’t see my wife like this.

When i finally stop crying, he simply says “You are still you. Don’t let this deter you from seeing her. She loves you for who you are”

But i refuse. And so i go straight to Burrows and plead for him to do another surgery. Anything. But he refuses. “Son, you are still healing from the last surgery. There’s no more to be done. It’ll only bring harm. It’s time to welcome your new face”.

His words keep me up that night.

“God…are you there? Why have you done this to me?”

I’m back in the abandoned house across the road, kneeling in the same place i once did three months ago. This time my eyes don’t water constantly. The silence is a welcome reprieve from the constant noise at the wards. I dip my head and close my eyes. And i breath. And in this moment, I remember Derek Junior’s words. How he can still paint. I imagine holding my wife. Waking up next to her. Seeing her smile. And for the first time, I take a much needed deep breath.

“Are you there God?……I guess i can still paint”

Christmas comes by in such a flurry. I’m sitting in the dining room, my back to the entrance. I run my sweaty hands down my navy slacks to dry them. Today is the day. Doctor Burrows has given me a little mirror and i peer down at it to examine my hair. Derek Junior gave me a haircut. He’s surprisingly good at it. There’s a thick scar across my right cheek and around my nose. Another that runs down the midline of my forehead. The right side of my mouth dips slightly lower than the left and when i smile into the mirror it’s lopsided. Sadly the hair around my right ear was blasted away by the grenade, but Junior has managed to cut my hair in such a way that covers the bald and scarred spots. I don’t have any eyebrows. I run a finger along where they would be. Will she recognise me? I slide the small oval mirror into my pocket and try to relax into the chair.

I hear the heels first. The sharp sound against the floorboards behind me. Despite two years, i can still recognise the sound of her walk. I instantly freeze. I can’t turn around. Fear like I’ve never felt before strikes me. How is she going to react?

I smell her perfume next. Roses. Hint of vanilla. God, do i miss that. And then i see her in my periphery, blond hair that cascades down her shoulders. Still i don’t move. And then there she is, standing in front of me. Hands braced against the seat across from me. Eyes the colour of honey exploring my face. She gasps, shock written over that beautiful face. I wince, squeezing my hands together in my lap. She’s wearing a floral dress, with a thin brown belt around her waist. So delicate.

“Richard” she cries out. Rivulets of tears stream down her face and then she’s rushing around the small table, hands over my shoulders, my neck, smoothing my hair. She doesn’t run away. Doesn’t shrink back. It’s then i finally move, standing up and engulfing her in a tight hug. Something i never thought i would be able to do again. She clings to me, hands digging into my back. I press my face into the side of her neck, breathing in her scent.

“I missed you honey. So so much” I croak.

She’s sobbing and I’m trembling, still so frightened that she’s disgusted by how i look. She pulls away to examine my face more closely, placing a hand gently against the side of my face and smiles. That beautiful magnificent smile, making those dimples i love appear.

And she says “God, it's you”