Was Blind, chapter one PLEASE READ AND TELL ME IF IT'S GOOD

Sorry I had to do this as a "story." The "book page or chapter" setting wasn't cooperating.

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I could feel the coarse fabric of my mother’s sweater under my fingertips. Every stitch stood out, vivid against my skin. I tried to imagine the sweater, but I couldn’t get the color right. It was sort of a darkish maroon, but in my head I was getting a grape-juice purple instead.

I could also feel her limp. Her left side sagged down every other step. Step. Sag. Step. Sag. Step… I guess she got banged around in the crash too.

A bit to my left, my brother Mark was whining. Right, he was sooo hurt, I was sure. We had already been to the ER and I heard the doctor tell mom about his many injuries. In other words, he had a big bruise. “No broken bones, nothing to worry about.” Trust Mark to milk it for all it’s worth.

The hall smelled of antiseptic. There were a few voices coming from my right, beyond Mom. Probably, there was an office of some sort over there. I dug my hands into Mom’s sweater and strained my eyes.

I still couldn’t see.

I dug my hands in further, desperate to be touching something solid, and leaned into her. What if I ran into a wall? I had no clue where I was, and I felt so helpless, my eyes straining to see something other than the emptiness pressing in on them.

And I still couldn’t see.

I tried to imagine the hall we were walking in, a wide one, I decided, with tiled floors. I put doors along the left and right walls, and big shiny brass plaques with names and room numbers on them next to the doors.

It was a wild guess, but it seemed all right to me. I felt less claustrophobic, walking down my imaginary hallway.

My mother stopped. I felt the jolt. Was that because, since I couldn’t see, my other senses were stronger, or was it simply because I was holding onto her so tight? From behind me, I heard my dad stop walking, too, and to my left, Mark also stopped, still complaining about his bruise.

“This is it,” she said.

“You sure?” asked my dad.

“Yup. Room 232, Dr. Laurens.”

In my mind, I zoomed in on one of those shiny black plaques. “Room 232. Dr. Laurens, MD. Eye doctor,” it said. I knew it really wouldn’t say “eye doctor,” instead it would say that really long “O” word that meant, “eye doctor.” But in my little imaginary world, where the halls were neat and tidy and everything was labeled with shiny brass plaques, stuff was written in English, too.

There was the squeaking sound of a door opening. In my mind, the big door with the shiny, “Dr. Laurens” plaque on it swung open. We walked inside: Mom and I first, then dad, then Mark. I imagined Mark stumbling in, cradling his bruised arm.

I had to smile a little at that.

“Hello,” said a voice I’d never heard before. I guessed it was Dr. Laurens. The voice was female, and annoyingly perky, so I guessed she was one of those overly optimistic doctors. You know the kind: the doctors who smile at you and tell you, like it’s the best news in the word, that you have a fatal disease.

I’ve never liked perky doctors very much.

I imagined Dr. Laurens as a short woman, maybe in her mid-20s. I gave her brunette hair in ponytail, really high heels, and tight clothes. For good measure, I added a couple zits, and when I heard her walk towards me, I made her wiggle.

It was actually kind of funny. Hey, if you can’t see, you might as well make the best of it, right?

And I’ve always been notorious for being overly optimistic.

But honestly, aside from that, I wasn’t feeling too cheerful at the moment. For obvious reasons.

Dr. Laurens, however, was. She stayed annoyingly cheerful as she checked my eyes, and then told my parents I had been blinded by the crash.

No. Really?

I mean, I could have just TOLD her I couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t I?

But it actually came as sort of a shock. I know that sounds stupid, but “blind” didn’t seem possible for me. You hear about it all the time, and you know it happens, but you never expect it to happen to you. And then one day you’re seeing perfectly normally, and the next day you aren’t.

It really scares me.

Dr. Laurens then got more scientific. She told my parents exactly what was wrong with me, and then told them all the places where they’d teach me Braille, walking with one of those little white canes, the works.

That also scared me.

It sort of came as a reminder: I was blind. I’d be stumbling around in the darkness for the rest of my life. I’d never see again.