I never understood what is so inherently wrong with darkness. I’d always read about people, from long, long ago wishing the dark away using all kinds of spells, potions and prayers. Even as children, people are scared of the dark; they associate it with evil, monsters, and whatever other crap that they believe go bump in the night.
They always promised me that they’d try to “enlighten” me. The doctors, I mean. To “bring me out of the darkness” and “into the good, healthy, light”. What bullshit. Ah, I mean, bullcrap. A lot of people say its the darkness that made me bitter, but it never was. It’s always their attitude; it’s always been.
Mother always told me I was more beautiful than every other girl. Each night before I went to sleep she’d describe the intricacies of my face: my “porcelain skin” , slightly freckled cheeks and lopsided smile (something not shown to many people, not even myself). She’d assure me that I was perfect, a prize for anyone to be won. That I shouldn’t be sad—this is how I was born. I was never unhappy — though something in her voice always seemed forced. That she was trying to convince herself more than she was every trying to convince me.
Being blind wasn’t too bad, anyway.