Good morning, Roni. How are you today?
I don't know where I am. I can't see anything around me.
And why is that, Roni?
I'm blind.
What can you tell me about how you came to lose your sight? What memories do you have?
Been like that since I was five years old. Weed killer and eyes don't mix. And, I've also learned the hard way that bleach is not the best thing to wash them out with should you find yourself with weed killer in your eyes. At five years old, maybe you'd be like me and reach for the nearest clear liquid. Perhaps you wouldn't have allowed your older sister to pour weed killer in your eyes in the first place.
How do you feel about your sister? Can you describe how she makes you feel? In your own words and your own time, please
I adored her, my sister. I can literally say I would have done anything for her. I live with that every day. Yet, I have no regrets.
Thank you, Roni. That concludes our session for today.
––––––––––––I know where I find myself isn't very big in terms of space. I'm enclosed by four walls, brick, rough. Gouges littering the surfaces of those walls; names, dates, simple messages and many downward strokes to count time passed. It feels like a prison. I don't know if it is. I can't see anything around me. I'm blind.
If I am in prison, it'll be because of Veronica. Roni, she liked being called. Spelled it just like that: RONI. In Braille, that's
It was the first word I learned in Braille after I lost my sight. I would've done anything for Roni, whatever she'd ask of me. Every time. It must have driven our parents out of their minds. Roni often said they were "losing it", which would always make me giggle.
I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes and sniff in the stale air. A strange odour. A scent that can't be described in terms of perfumes, but more likely described with stench/sewer/faeces/shit/rank/corrosive. Ammonia. Somewhere in this room is an open toilet. It most likely doesn't have a flush. I can judge all that with my nose. It's highly tuned now. There are other smells, mingling like cocktail party crowds. Sweat, blood, a hint of oranges. I can pick up the aroma of chicken roasting. Perhaps it's on the lunch menu.
This smell makes me hungry. I try to remember when I last ate something. Roni would've made me a sandwich last night before bed. I couldn't sleep without leaving something out to eat during the night. It would've been peanut butter and raspberry jam on brown bread. No butter. I like my bread dry.
I step sideways and my shins connect with a metal rod. I suck in my breath, hold it until the pain subsides. I reach down, fumbling. My hands touch cloth. Denim. Heavyweight. I don't know what colour they are, but they smell of the sweat and blood. There is wetness on them. Bringing my finger to my nose I can ascertain it's blood. Definitely. I know that smell. Memories flood my head. Blood. Definitely blood.
I can smell chicken being roasted and wonder if that's what we're eating for lunch. Perhaps it's on the menu.
I scratch Roni's name on the wall, in Braille. All in lower case.
The blood on my hands makes the pen slip as I try to dig it into the plaster. Dust. The wall is crumbling. I don't think anyone will be able to read Braille anyway, so I don't worry that it probably looks messy. That's the way the cookie crumbles.
I know it's there.
I stop; cock my head to one side. I hear footsteps; they are not close but I feel the vibrations of the floor and I can hear the slap of leather on polished tile. Are they coming for me, I wonder? I move back to the metal shelf and reach down again. I find a blanket, it is dry. I think it's a bed. There is a body lying on the bed, the shelf. It doesn't move. The smell of blood and sweat is strong. I recall things now.
I am in prison. Of course I am. Clarity.
The day is clear to me. The lounge of the house was immaculate; I was sitting on the settee, watching television and eating biscuits, with Roni. I could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner, the drone and whine. Mother, ever the cleaner. Roni was passing me the biscuits, each cleanly snapped in half so I was able to dunk them in my tea. I liked it. Sometimes I wouldn't drink the tea – I'd simply make a cup so I could submerge my favourite biscuits into the hot liquid and feel the soggy remnants of a biscuit melt over my tongue.
I had no idea, not until Mother came in and shouted. Crumbs, everywhere. Roni whispered into my ear, pressed the poker from the fire in my hand. She spoke to me, told me I must do it. I heard the vacuum come closer, its hum and whine drilling into my skull. I can remember the smell of blood from that day. Roni said I'd done well. She said I'd made her proud.
I'm in a prison. I've scratched Roni's name on the wall. I can smell chicken being roasted, perhaps that will be served for lunch. Roni says that I can have two helpings if I want and there will be gravy. Roni tells me everything.
I can hear the footsteps closer now. A faint squeak as the heel pronates on each step. I don't have long, they are coming for me. Roni tells me. I must hide the evidence, she says.
I move to the shelf, the bed. I reach down and feel the blanket. Pulling hard I am able to release it from underneath the body. I grab corners, throwing it up and forward, just like Roni says to. I let it drift over the corpse and stand so that it cannot be easily seen from the door. I start to sweat. I run my fingers over the scars around my eyes.
The footsteps stop outside my door. Keys inserted; the scrape of metal on metal. Clunk it turns.
Yes, Roni, I'm glad I've made you proud again. I've scratched your name on the wall, in Braille.
It looks like this:
