trait until dark

When Desmond Renna wasn’t working as an actor, or any job for that matter, he would dedicate his time to perfecting his craft by playing a fictional character in his everyday life for an entire month. This time around, his character trait was visual impairment—blind as a bat—and it was driving his roommates up a wall and out of the house.

First thing he did, he sealed his eyelids shut with bandage tape, forcing himself into complete sightlessness. Over those, he wore sunglasses because of course all blind people wore shades. And every waking moment, he felt his way around the house with his arms outstretched, tripping into and knocking over everything in his path. He mistakenly used somebody else’s toothbrush because, whoops, he couldn’t tell whose was whose. When his roommates watched a movie, he complained he couldn’t follow along because no one had the decency to turn on the audio description feature (it’s like subtitles, only it narrates the action for the visually impaired). 

When it was Des’s turn to cook, everybody volunteered to do it for him, and Des would scold them by saying he didn’t need their pity. Then he’d spend the entire time asking them if the container he was holding was the correct product.

“Is this the pasta?” he asked, carrying a box of mothballs.

“Is this pancake syrup?” he inquired, holding dish soap.

In the bathroom, he missed the toilet by two feet and pissed all over the floor. He used copious amounts of toilet paper because he couldn’t tell if he’d done a thorough job of wiping his ass. Twice, he’d gone out to the mailbox, wandered straight into the road, and almost got flattened by a car.

Des couldn’t see their faces, but his friends’ tone of voice suggested they were enduring his antics with the patience one might have while waiting for their sick, demented grandparent to keel over and die.

On the last day of Des’s thirty days of blindness, all of his roommates were out of the house. Logan was cruising the streets, making illegal dealings to pay the bills, and JT and Ollie were location-scouting for the next short film they’d likely never get around to filming. Desmond wanted to tag along, but JT had put an immediate stop to that notion, telling him, “You want to come with us while we go look for locales? No, you’ll just be in our way.”

The landlord was coming, and Des’s only job was to hand over the rent. Logan always left the money in the laundry room, tucked under an empty detergent container above the washer and dryer. But when Des checked the hiding spot after everyone else had gone, to ensure the cash was in place, he couldn’t lay his hands on it. It wasn’t there. He was certain of it. 

Des patted his pockets, wanting to call Logan and ask why the money wasn’t where it was supposed to be, but his phone wasn’t on his person. He’d likely never locate it unless he heard it ring first. Also, how would he dial?

There was a knock at the door.

With his hands extended, Des felt his way to the knob, opened it, and said, “Hello?”

Another knock.

Des stuck his hand out and touched coats. He was in the closet.

More knocking to his right. He turned, found the door handle, opened it, and felt the sunlight on his face.

“Hello?”

“Logan here?” a man’s voice said. “He’s supposed to have left me some money.”

Great—the landlord.

“He’s out at the moment,” Des said, “and I can’t seem to find it. It’s always in the same spot, but—”

The landlord cut him off with an aggressive groan.

Des made an open-mouthed gesture of surprise as an idea came to him. “Hey, come in here and take a look. Tell me if it’s on the shelf over here. I can’t see anything.”

“You can’t—?”

“I’m blind,” Des said, pointing to his sunglasses.

“All right,” the landlord said. “Where at?”

Des took two steps back into the house, said, “The washer’s right—” and tripped over a shoe or something or another, staggered backwards, smacked his heels on the bottom of the second-floor staircase, fell back, and smashed his tailbone and both elbows on the steps. Hissing and gasping, he couldn’t tell what had caused more pain, the edge of the step crunching into his spine, the rug scorching his bare skin, or the jolt of fright in his heart caused by falling and not knowing where the hell he was going to land.

“Jesus, kid, you really are blind, huh?” the landlord said. “Here, take my hand.”

Des couldn’t see the hand but waved it away in protest. “I can do it myself.” He got to his feet, started moving one way, and the landlord clutched his elbow and turned him in another direction.

“Over here. I’m bringing you to the washer.”

Hands clasped Des’s shoulders, the landlord behind him, easing him forward. His pace was a little too fast for Des’s comfort, the landlord seeming to be in a rush. When the landlord quit pushing, he said, “Okay, you’re in front of the washer. Now, where does Logan keep the money?”

“Do you see detergent on the second shelf?” Des said.

“Yep.”

“Under that.”

Des felt the flat of a hand nudge his arm, moving him out of the way, and he teetered sideways, catching his balance on a nearby wall.

“Found it,” the landlord said, and Des tuned in to the distinct sound of bills rustling, the landlord counting the cash. “Logan’s short again.”

“By how much?”

“Eleven hundred by my count.”

“Eleven hundred short!” Des screeched. “But the rent is only nine hundred! How can we be short?”

The landlord said, “The—?” and went quiet. He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah, well, uh, Logan was short last month, too. Adds up, you know?”

“Oh,” Des said. He supposed that made sense.

The landlord’s voice softened, seeming more friendly than agitated. “Listen, do you know when Logan’s coming back?”

Des shook his head. “I’m all alone for the day. If you could help me find my phone, I can call him and sort this thing out.”

“No, don’t do that,” the landlord said. “Tell you what—how about I cut you some slack, seeing as how you’re blind and all, and your roommates left you by yourself? I’ll come back next week for the rest of the rent.”

“Okay,” Des said. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Des’s ears homed in on a vibrating sound, his phone ringing from somewhere in the house. “My phone,” he said. “That might be Logan. Quick, help me find it before it stops.”

He spun around, hands out, and waddled toward the ringing phone. He smacked his shins into something hard, smashed his nose into a wall, clobbered his shoulder on a corner, and whirled around so fast he no longer knew which direction of the house he was headed, what room he was in, or where the phone was. Not that he had any idea to begin with.

The phone stopped ringing. “Hey,” Des called out, and faltered, realizing he had never been left in charge of handing over the rent money and had never once laid eyes on his landlord (and still hadn’t), and thus, didn’t know his name. “Uh, Mr. Landlord?”

“Right here,” the landlord said beside him. “Found your phone, but the call dropped. It was Logan.”

“Can you call him back for me?”

“Sure thing,” the landlord said, and after a moment, Des felt the man clutch his wrist and slap the phone into his palm.

The phone rang on speaker. The click came, and Logan’s voice spoke. “Desmond, I need a favor.”

“Rent’s already taken care of,” he said. “Landlord’s here now.”

“That’s good,” Logan said. “Different favor, though. There might be someone else coming by today, someone looking for me.”

“Okay.”

“If he shows up, tell him I’m getting the money I owe him, and I’ll let him know when I have it.”

“Okay.”

“Do not let him in the house,” Logan said, his voice stern.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

“Logan—”

Click.

“I think he hung up,” Des said.

The cell vibrated in his hand, another incoming call. He swiped the answer key—at least, where he presumed the button would be—and answered.

“Des, we need your help,” JT said on speakerphone.

“With what?”

“We were location scouting in the woods and got a little turned around out here.”

“Meaning?”

“We’re lost.”

“I’m supposed to help you…how?”

“We’re behind my grandma’s place. Drive up here and lay on the horn, so we know which direction to go.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Des said.

In the background, Ollie said, “Told you he wasn’t gonna break character.”

“For Christ's sake, Des,” JT said. “Pull the wool out of your eyes and come save us!”

“I think you mean my head out of my ass,” Des said.

“Desmond!”

“Listen, JT, I’m here with the landlord. I’ll call you back.”

“How are you gonna dial—”

Click.

“Hey, are you still there?” Des said to the room. “Mr. Landlord?”

The room didn’t answer back. He must have left, which was fine. But Des had to navigate to the door, make sure it was shut and locked up, in case this friend of Logan’s came by.

Arms outstretched like a zombie, he ventured forward, smacked his knees on the coffee table, tumbled over it, hit the floor, and his sunglasses flew off his face. “Rats,” he said, and crawled on hands and knees throughout the house until he found the door. As soon as he jiggled the knob, confirming it was secured, another knock came.

Des pressed his face against the glass, said, “Who’s there?” and heard a frightened yelp.

“Jesus, what’s up with your eyes?” the voice said through the door.

“Oh.” Des palmed his face, remembering now that his sunglasses were off and the beige-colored tape was in view. The tape blended with his skin tone. Made him look like an eyeless, deformed person. He told the voice, “I’m, uh, temporarily blind. I’m practicing for a part.”

“A part?”

“It’s a roleplay thing.”

“Okay,” the man said.

“I do this every once in a while. I play a role for a month straight. And I never break character.”

There was a long pause before, “Which one are you again?”

“Desmond.”

“Desmond, have you got something for me?”

Crap! Logan’s friend. Don’t let him in!

Des reached for the solid roller shade on top of the door, said, “Oh, sure, you must be—” and yanked it down, covering the glass.

“Hey!” the man shouted.

“Go away,” Des said. “Logan’s not here.”

“I just want my money,” Logan’s friend said.

“There’s no money here! Get lost, you goddamn deadbeat!”

“You son of a bitch!” Logan’s man crowed, and that was the last Des heard of him.

Now that he was alone again, and tired, he traversed the living room until he found the couch (Which he only located after tripping over the coffee table a second time, followed by the crunching sound of his sunglasses under his foot) and felt around for the television remote for what felt like hours. He turned on the TV and lay back, listening to whatever channel was on, and within the darkness of his sealed eyelids, he dozed off into deeper darkness.

And woke up to more darkness. It was late. Des had no idea how he knew it; it was just a sense he had, perhaps from the lower temperature in the house, the cool breeze drifting in from the open door.

Open door?

Des sat up. “Guys? Anybody home?”

No one responded except for the creaking hallway floor upstairs.

“JT? Ollie?”

One dull thump of a footstep answered, then silence.

Des got to his feet, palming the wall until he turned a corner and touched the staircase railing. He tilted his head upwards towards the second story and shouted, “Is anyone up there?”

Footsteps. Drawers opening and shutting. Floorboards squealing.

Did Logan’s friend break in? Nonsense. Who would trespass into someone’s house, knowing they were home? Well, if they knew the person who was home was blind, they might!

Idiot, Des thought. You told Logan’s friend you never break character.

“Not gonna either,” he told himself.

Des navigated to the kitchen, discovered the countertop with his fingers, opened a drawer—the wrong drawer—and tried another. His hand touched silverware, first the spoons, then the forks, butter knives… Where the hell did they keep the big knives? Right, those were on the wall above the stove, attached to a magnetic block of wood. With a couple of sidesteps to the right, his hands landed on the gas dials of the oven, and he found his proper position. He reached straight ahead, got his hand on a thick handle, which meant a big blade, and plucked it off the wall. All the while Des was arming himself, the commotion upstairs continued.

He felt his way to the staircase, and with the blade in one hand and the other on the railing, he ascended. When he reached the top, he heard the scuffling at the farthest end of the hall in Logan’s room. Des crouched into a defensive attack stance and said, “I can hear you back there. Come out and leave peacefully, and I won’t hurt you!”

The bedroom quieted. Silence.

“Do you hear me?” Des said, but still got nothing besides the minute whisper of a dresser drawer sliding open—or shut. “Hey! Stop going through our stuff and come out here!”

No reply.

Des raised the knife high above his head. “I’m warning you!”

Nada.

“Show yourself!” he shouted.

Footsteps eased their way toward him.

God, this problem would be over if Des would just peel the tape from his eyes. Then he could see the burglar, see who he was, and see where he was. But no, no, Des was in character. He was blind. And Desmond Renna would never break character.

Footsteps progressed closer. The floor vibrated under Des’s feet. “That’s right,” he declared, and slashed at the air with his knife one time, whipping it in a crisscross motion, as a warning. “No funny business, or I’ll gut you like a—”

A shoe or a boot or perhaps a cinderblock slammed into his testicles in an upward thrusting motion, a kick so powerful that it was, ironically, blinding. Even with his eyes closed, he saw stars. The kick stole his breath, and he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, open-mouthed and trying desperately to force air into his lungs.

JT and Ollie came home hours later. It was after midnight, in fact, which Des had registered by the alarm going off on his phone. He set it a month ago, the moment before he’d taped his eyes shut, as a signal the thirty days were up and his character was over. Des opened his eyes again, crawled headfirst down the stairs, dragged his throbbing family jewels into the kitchen, and opened the freezer to find something cold to press against his groin. That’s where his roommates found him, on the kitchen floor, humping a bag of green beans, hissing every time he moved a muscle, wide-eyed and batting his eyes as though he were still blind.

“Who’s there?” Des said with an aching start upon hearing them enter.

“Christ, Des, what happened to you?” JT said.

Des explained the robbery, Logan’s associate, who had broken in, burglarized the house, and kicked him in his plums on the way out.

“He clobbered me so hard, I think I’m cross-eyed.”

“Beats the hell out of being blind, I guess,” JT said.

“Did you call the cops and report it?” Ollie asked.

“Report what?” Des said. “I don’t know who he was or what he looked like.”

“Hold the phone,” Ollie said, raising a hand. “What do you mean you don’t know what he looked like? He got close enough to kick you in the nuts, and you didn’t—”

“Des!” JT interrupted. “Tell me you weren’t still acting blind when this guy broke in.”

“What do you think?” Des said.

“Someone breaks into the house, and you don’t open your fucking eyes to see who it is?”

“I don’t break character.”

“I’m gonna break your neck!” JT said and lunged at him. Ollie yanked him back. Logan came through the door, stomping into the kitchen like an angry baboon. He stood alongside the other two, hovering over Des.

“We leave you by yourself for one day with one simple task, and you gotta fuck it all up, uh?”

Des frowned. “How did you know we got robbed?”

“Huh?” Logan said, frowning back. “No—I’m talking about the rent. You didn’t give the landlord the rent.”

“I most certainly gave him the rent,” Des admonished.

“Is that so? Then why is he calling me and bitching about my dumb, blind roommate, who shut him out and called him a goddamn deadbeat?”

“I didn’t call him any such thing,” Des said. “I slammed the door in your friend’s—” He paused. 

“You gave it to the wrong guy, didn’t you?” Logan said.

Yeah, he admitted to himself, he could see how that happened.

Devin James Leonard’s tales often take place in rural, blue-collar settings, featuring working-class characters who go to great lengths to avoid legitimate work. His writing has appeared in over forty magazines and anthologies, including Flash Fiction Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, BULL, Maudlin House, Literally Stories, and Fiction on the Web. His debut novel, The Buddy Snatchers, was recently acquired by Crystal Lake Publishing and is set for release in October 2026. You can find his publications on Instagram @devinjamesleonard