Bob groped blindly for the door. He knew it had to be somewhere in front of him. He had passed through it hundreds of times in the past week; traversed the hallways of this stone and brick barracks at least twice an hour every day for nearly a month.

But it was in this last hour of this last Thursday of December that Bob found himself incapable of finding the cylindrical brass knob that held the power to unlatch the wood and steel door which he knew was in front of him. His vision waned. It left him, now, sightless and confused. Why had he suddenly gone blind? Why was the door no longer in front of him? What was that smell?

He decided to answer the last question first, and set his powerful olfactory senses to the task of identifying the foul odor.

The recognition dwindled from its original nostalgic strength, then took hold again, dragging Bob’s nose and mind into an introspective worm-hole bound for his childhood. It was a smell he’d not sniffed in a long while. His inner vision saw faint images of white and nearly digested food, caught in the folds of his inner throat. Yes, that was the scent. The somewhat veggie-like scent of those tiny white blobs of unswallowed and bleached food he sometimes coughed forward. He had adored the smell in his youth: held the bits to his nose and inhaled deeply their aroma until the little things were too dry and crusty to continue emitting their precious and tantalizing aura.

But in his current state, the smell only served to annoy him. Bob was in no shape to be romantic, and he was definitely not feeling warm and fuzzy. His sight had not yet returned. He placed his hands on his face and rubbed gently. Then more firmly. He saw none of the swirling miasma’s of light and multicolored inkblots he was used to seeing when his eyes were closed. The non-images would become even brighter, easier to identify when he rubbed his eyes. Now they were not there.

Inwardly, Bob winced. He shut his eyes tightly and clenched his brain. He felt the familiar inner hum resonate in his head. He opened his eyes again and again saw nothing.

Bob swung his arms around wildly, trying to touch something, anything that was neither floor nor face. He found nothing. Cautiously, he moved his left foot along the floor around him, feeling for a wainscoting, chair, stubborn nail, anything he could feel as solid from within the black leather confines of his tight army boots.

But there was nothing. No creaky boards, no walls, not a sausage.

Quietly, calmly, Bob began to weep. He sobbed under his breath, and turned his into what he knew would be a most distressing grimace. Trouble was, in his current condition, he would never see that horrible face again. Nor his more appealing smiles, quizitive smirks, or vengeful frowns. None of his gamut of facial expressions would ever be reflected back in a mirror at him. Perhaps he would simply not reflect at all. He would become liken to a vampire, casting no shadow on the ground, throwing no reflections into the pond. For why would light continue to play its games with him, when he could no longer participate in the proceedings.

Again, now openly crying, Bob stretched a hand out in front of him. This time, however, it found a cold, metallic round object. The Door!

Bob slapped his other hand firmly onto the frigid brass knob, and slowly, ever so timidly, he turned the thing counter-clockwise. With a squeak of interminable length, he felt the door give and push away from him. He began to move with pride and purpose again, ignoring the tears which so urgently asked for a rub, scratch, or a poke upon his screaming cheeks. All of his might went into the pushing of the door, the concerted effort to keep the one thing that still tied him to reality firmly in front of him, and moving forward.

He opened it as far as he could, then stepped out into the warmth. A bright yellow blur became apparent. His eyes began to swim. Joy rushed from his brain and out into his extremities. It coated his bones with power, stretched his eyelids to their fullest and widest state.

And the blur became a bright beacon of hope. It sharpened, slowly, and moved towards him, ready to engulf him in its warmth and love. It bore black lines, grew closer, came with a loud grinding hum of bliss. And Bob opened his arms to embrace that which had rescued him from the utter blackness of death. He reached out to embrace it. And was promptly killed by the speeding school bus which had been heading towards him.