It had been a few days since waking, the main way Lawrence had discerned this was the day to day sounds of the infirmary, he very easily zeroed in on key sounds like the hunters doing their check rounds, of shift changes, even the sharp chemical smell of the floor being mopped outside his room was a signifier. There was no more accurate means of measurement available to him, he could not read clocks any longer and without Butch he didn’t have a watch either.

His entire body still ached, but he had been able to get up and move around by sheer force of will since that morning. Pain could be controlled and set aside, his muscles functioned, his bones functioned and dignity was one of the few things that mattered to him. Everything took slow careful patience without sight, from eating to going to the bathroom; every single task was a complicated array of seeking things out and remembering their positions. He coped well; his mind was not cluttered with distractions to detract from his learning process, but it was taxing physically and he was still relatively reliant on having his meals brought to him and familiar surroundings. As far as meals, he ate what he was given, regardless of quality, his concern about maintaining a minimal weight set on hold in favour of feeding his body appropriately to aid recovery. After all, he did not require the pain of hunger to retain a sense of attachment to his own body; it had enough pain inherent for the time being to be going on with.

It was anyone’s guess if he would ever see again, and the fact irritated him as much as anything could. Indecisiveness was a frustrating flaw in those around him, even America had said he should retrieve his sight as there was no damage to his eyes, but should was not a definitive. It would be a real inconvenience to deal with in the long run, he would not be able to reasonably maintain personas or to interact with other people in the way he typically chose. He was entirely independent, a solitary entity and it simply was not feasible or acceptable to have to rely on the imperfect. If it persisted beyond an acceptable recovery time, a year or so for instance, he would simply leave in an absolute and permanent fashion. Death was simply an option like any other, typically outweighed by the many negatives involved.

Passing the time involved slipping into his own thoughts and revising books and music with close taut control and memory exercise, but even this familiar and easy hobby became hindered by intrusive thoughts, the strange fascination with America, the nature of manipulation of the other individuals he had in his sights. He was not used to distraction, yet here it was. If he never regained his sight, he would never be able to savour America’s downfall, never able to dissect her emotions with the reverence they required. It was a frustration.

Things would be far more convenient if he was back in his old property. Any of the mark groups he had surrounded himself with before, from the elderly women to his wives would have been fighting amongst themselves to feed him and tend him. He knew this because on occasion, to reaffirm these bonds and assess them, he would fake illness. Yet here on this island there were few individuals with any investment at all in him, building a power base was difficult without the typical constraint of laws and day to day expectations. It had always been simple to assess what things his marks in the world required and would need, he found niches and filled them entirely. On the island so many individuals were mentally ill or volatile that it was difficult to even begin an effective assessment of their needs and what they would be amenable towards. He toyed with their hatreds with Jan in an attempt to get a handle on what their values were, and it had been valuable. On the whole the inhabitants of the island appeared to be liberal in their outlooks, young and with strong yet selfish concepts of morality. That is to say, they felt they personally were moral, but others were not. The innate invincibility of youth ran prevalent despite confirmation to the contrary and generally pity held greater sway than respect.

It had been valuable research and had allowed him to create Chantelle, who was both dismissed and disliked, further research into which things irritated them about even their peers. But now that persona was also inaccessible. He was left with simply himself, with the cold calculating creature beneath and the awareness that with only this and elements of Jan left to wield that he would find it difficult to get traction. If there was one thing he knew from experience, it was that most people, even the most self-proclaimed loving individuals could feel nothing but fear, pity or mistrust when faced with his non-persona. He did not understand why, but he did not need to, he knew the value of his personas.

And without sight, he did not have them. All that remained was to wait patiently and see what the future would force him to do.