Groping for his watch on the nightstand, he rubs his eyes to welcome the vague, incoherent sense of light that streams into his bedroom. Coaxing his feet into the warm slippers that he'd laid out carefully the night before, he stands uneasily to face the day without seeing its blinding beauty. Wristwatch beating in time with his heart, every moment is regulated by the passing seconds. The minutes, hours and days pass, not one escaping him without a wish for this horrible burden to disappear. Slapping his hand against his thigh, he calls without words for his companion to come and, once again, be fixated to his side from morning to evening. "Hey there, Max! Hello, Boy." He rests a hand on the golden lab's head. Such dependency makes one claustrophobic with the feeling that somebody must always be there watching, seeing, living your life for you.

Alain remembered what it was like to look upon the day, to examine his hands, his feet, his face, to know what a handsome man he was. Yet, his sight eludes him once again at the mirror; his beauty escapes him with each passing day. He thinks to himself, My sight will return to me, in time. It's a passing ailment - a lesson, perhaps, to teach those in need of being taught about life's miracles and how they should never be taken for granted. Alain felt mainly sorry for himself and blamed God as the primary source of all his woes. Why has God done this to me, he would question, when I have remained such a humble servant of His kingdom? Why does he will me this way?

Slowly finding his way to the bathroom to scrape away the night whiskers, he looks into the mirror, though he does not see his reflection - but that does not matter, because he knows that even if he could see his face, he would merely be a stranger to his own eyes. He remembers only hazy images of a child he once knew, one who he was sure would look nothing like the man he was now. While fumbling in the medicine cabinet for the shaving cream and razor blade, he thinks about what it would be like if he were to flick the blade one way or another, against the grain of his skin - his delicate, vulnerable skin, like the wing of a moth drawn to the heat, lusting for the flame of metal against flesh; with one swift flick of the wrist, he would bleed out his pains, blinded no more.

He sets the razor down on the edge of the sink and starts to work the gel from the spout of the cold can into a thick cream between his palms, feeling it tingle and bubble with each stroke of one hand passing over the other, round and round and round. The blade resting on the frigid porcelain basin chides him, calls him. It would be so easy, he hears it whisper. Ignoring its childish taunts from where it sits on the sink below, spreading the white fluff onto his rough visage, he starts to hum. He begins softly, slowly at first, like a tourist in a big city questioning each turn, trying to find that place he was once before or a breath of fresh air. A lullaby that his mother once used to sing to him escapes his mouth. "Tour-ra-lour-ra-loura; tour-ra-lour-ra-lie, tour-ra-lour-ra-loura is an Irish lullaby." He pauses a moment to wet his lips slowly with his tongue. Alain thinks of the way his mother looked when she sang that song to him; he saw her smiling at him as he nestled down under thick covers, wishing to stay awake all night and watch her face.

As he glides the sleek surface of the blade over his grainy cheek, his wrist passes by the ever-attentive ear so that it might remind him of the time left in life to live without sight. Tick, tick, tick, tick; the subdued heartbeat of Alain's wristwatch, of time, beats surreptitiously under the cover of its plain face, pitter-pattering the way little footsteps of a tiny thief might sound, running away with his time.

He finishes shaving, having successfully outwitted the razorblade and its enchanting offers of renewed sight, and draws a bath. He puts his hand under the faucet. The water is warm and comforting and meets his skin with affectionate wet kisses. He rises and stretches his long arms toward that space above, the ceiling, the skies outside, the stars in the outer atmosphere.

As he disrobes to slide into the tepid bath to wait while it gets hot, he feels around for the edge of the tub. Not noticing the water has spilled over the edges of the old-fashioned basin, he cannot prevent slipping in the puddle that has formed on the floor.

No one is there to hear the hard crack of white bone against white porcelain, except for his dog, Max. No one is there to see his helpless naked body lying in a pool of blood and water. He won't feel shame when the paramedics come and find him, he thinks, because not even he can see himself there on the tiles, thus leaving his conscience clear to die before they come. As he lies there, face-up on the ground in the last minutes of his life - those in which a person is supposed to see his whole lifespan flash before his eyes, he stares blindly at the ceiling thinking that he'll never see and relive those times. He is suddenly surprised he he catches a glimpse of Max. Blurred at first yet quickly sharpening he sees the light fixture on the ceiling, sees the vivid red of life and death on the edge of the smooth, cream-coloured tub, sees the golden fur and pink tongue of his faithful companion, sees the green leaves outside, beyond the window; he sees his life flash before him: his mother's warm smile and soft brown hair, the old red shoes he wore to baseball games when he was six, his last sight of cool, clear water rushing past his face.

And then he sees his own demise: dark curtains cloaking his sigh, blackening breath and life.