blind faith story please best answer will be marked as brainiest
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There is a lone bench among the darkened trees of the park. It stands there resolutely, in defiance of the elements. The gnarled pine is split along one leg, and its entire surface is blackened and charred. Twice struck by lightning, the bench has survived as if through some kind of internal courage. The bench is chilled to the touch.
Thinking is all I have left now, since I lost my sight. It seems strange to think of being blind, of never being able to see again. Becoming blind is always something that happens to someone else, some poor unfortunate soul, yet we never really care or even think about it until it happens.
I seem to have spent much of my life here, in the park. I have watched time pass by on lazy summer days, huddled close to complete strangers in hiding from a storm and took my first tentative steps in the transition to working life.
I have heard blindness described as like being born again. For me, it was like dying, only a living death. Each sound, touch and taste is amplified when you’re blind. There is simply nothing distracts you from the sensations. Now I am virtually alone, but for my guide dog and the bench and the few phone calls from relatives I receive at birthdays and Christmas.
I pat the dog now, his shaggy coat ruffling the edge of my fingers as usual. Faithful old George, keeping me safe from harm, tail slapping my leg happily as he steers me through danger. “Good old George, never let an owner down yet,” they said at the hospital. It’s true that he has never let me down thus far.
Anger grips me. I cannot bear living like this any longer. I am tired of the silences when I walk into rooms. At the park, I can almost sense the stares of the others, hear the laughs of the children ridiculing, “That funny old man with the dog.” I almost wish I had been hit by the lightning that day.
A normal life is all I really want. Freedom, rather than the confined space I live in now. I used to love planes when I was little, always wanted to be a pilot. I imagine that I can see again, that the stars’ twinkling pierces the veil of my eyes. I am flying through the air carefree, in control of my own destiny.
I pat the leg of the bench, as I always do on nights like these, the mottled surface so cold that it hurts my hand. Slowly, I stand up, leaning on my walking stick for support. Shuffling outside to the gate, I notice that George is no longer by my side. I gaze back sightlessly, utterly helpless and alone. The irregular honks from the road frighten me now. After a seeming eternity, I hear his pant at my leg, and the moment passes. “We’ll be back tomorrow, old boy,” I say.