Slayde

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• Name Slayde Ramzi Gender Male Birthdate May 19th Height 6'5" Weight 175 lbs

  Hair Black/Bronze Eyes Blue Ethnicity Pakistani/Caucasian Career Massage Therapist Ex-novelist Marital Status Fuck off

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  What happened to the humble, meek, modest Slayde Ramzi of before?
  
  

  Everything was from before.

  The before man had smiled often, greeted each day with a sense of humility not to take anything for granted. Soft of voice, out of shape, and a gentle spirit. He had dates lined up for every night of the week. Well, that hadn't changed but now it was more out of pity instead of starry-eyed gold-diggers looking to cash in on his near celebrity status and hefty royalty checks.

  
  

  B.A..

  
  

  Before attack.

  
  

  Before scars

  
  

  Before surgeries.
  
  

  Before prolonged hospital stays.
  
  

  Before migraines

  that were barely staved off by a handful of pills numerous times a day.

  
  

  Before pity.

  He couldn't see it in their eyes or expressions any longer but the subtle change in voice tone. The ginger touches as if he were now made of glass. The tsking tongues and behind the hand whispers.
  
  

  "Poor man"
  
  "Such a tragedy"
  
  "Shouldn't he have a service dog?"
  
  "Where is his companion?"
  
  "Isn't anyone going to help this man?"

  
  He doesn't need help. He doesn't want help.

  
  

• ✒

  • Journal Entry October 12th 2017, 6:14 pm

    Excerpt from a recent interview.
    Interior: Photography studio

    
    "Why did you want to have these taken?"
    

    It was more of a requirement than my own need. (Stupid bitch you know that.) Soph, you called ME for the interview and Vicki said if I didn't do it she'll withhold my royalties. Don't act like a moron in front of the photographer. He's not here for you.

    
    Sounds of digital shutters clicking, lights shifting around to shift shadows over his face even though he couldn't fathom why a selfie wouldn't have worked.
    
    "Is it difficult to focus towards the photographer's voice? You keep looking away."
    

    It's a bit ironic to have a blind guy's picture being taken for everyone to see. To judge. To remark on when I can't reciprocate.

    
    Soft, canned laughter fluttered from the miniscule crew.
    

    It wasn't funny. Honestly rarely was.

    
    "Readers want to know why you took this hiatus. Even with the accident you can still write. Maybe finish the series?"
    

    Like I've said before, it's not a hiatus. The last book was just that. The last.

    
    The laughter had stopped then, tension sliding in as the smile on the reporter's face slipped away.
    
    "But you have a fan base that are loyal to you. Shouldn't you know, in your own words, reciprocate?"
    

    Maybe they should look into improving their own lives instead of escaping into a fantasy world.

    
    Silence ruled for a moment, the audacity shown was rare.
    

    Are we done yet?

    
    The reporter's notebook hissed a slew curses that Soph couldn't orate as pages were flicked about with nervous fingertips, the photographer's assistant attempted to instill props for the publicity photos. A service dog and a pair of dark sunglasses.
    
    

    What are th-- are you fucking serious?

    Ire was directed towards the reporter since she represented his publisher in this instance and was already on the hook for suggesting he was deaf as well as blind and wanted a damn byline on some blog that spoke about overcoming odds and all the bullshit that went along with it. Not this guy.