Not Handicapped || Fisher&Alexis
Fisher was looking forward to moving away from where he used to live, but at the same time, he was dreading it. A new home meant stumbling around and running into tables, grasping around for walls or being that blind guy with the walking stick extended before him to make sure he didn't ram into any unseen obstacles. And if there was anything Fisher despised, it was knowing that people would look at him, with his sunglasses concealing his unfocused pupils, his stick waving back and forth, or his seeing-eye dog, Braxton, pattering ahead of him to make sure a car didn't kill him.
"Fisher, you need that extra help," His mom had explained time and time again, trying to sooth the frustration her blind son felt. "It's okay to need extra help. You're still a totally independent person."
And he was, Fisher thought bitterly, feeling the bumps on one of the cardboard boxes in order to get an idea of the contents. Kitchen Utensils. He heaved up the box and carried it inside, following closely behind the sound of his father's rustling jeans and the clack of his dress shoes.
But, still, there were a few good things about the move. It'd been almost a full ten years since the curly-haired teenager had lost his sight, but his older childhood friends still acted as if he had just gone blind last week. They were always so tentative about talking to him, so hesitant of a misstep he knew they wouldn't even make if they'd just calm down. Fisher was okay with questions, he was okay with people wanting to understand. But he couldn't fucking stand when people acted like he was handicapped. Yes, he needed the colors of his clothes stitched into them to make sure he didn't go outside in bright green pants with a neon orange shirt, yes, he needed Braxton to walk across a street, but Fisher refused to see that as a handicap. It was a challenge. And ever since Fisher had been a child, when he could see, he always welcomed a challenge.
"Mom, where's the kitchen?" He called out, ears tuned carefully for his mother's high heels.
"Take two steps forward, and then it's four steps to the left." His mother directed, placing a hand carefully onto his shoulder. "Do you want me to lead you, Fisher?"
"No, Mom, I got it." He spat, yanking his shoulder away from her. Yeah, he could get away from his now ex-friends acting like it was news that he couldn't see, but he could never escape his own mother acting that way.
"I'm going to go walk around the neighborhood and get to know it." Fisher decided aloud, so his parents would hear him. He whistled for Braxton to come over. Kneeling down, he smoothed his hand over the silky coat until it hit some rough cloth. The leash. Fisher ran his hand along the cloth until he found the handle, walking forward and out the door.
