The Blind Truth

THE GREAT BLINDNESS

The air was still thick with the weight of uncertainty as I sat on the edge of my bed, my fingers tracing the unfamiliar textures of the quilt beneath me. Darkness enveloped my world; it had been my world for the past two years. 

"The Great Blinding", they called it. A cataclysm that robbed humanity of its most precious sense, leaving us groping in the shadows of an eternal night In the beginning, there were screams and cries, a cacophony of despair as the world adjusted to the abrupt loss. Then, gradually, a solemn acceptance settled over the remnants of humanity. We adapted and found new ways to communicate and navigate the perpetual obsidian landscape that had become our reality.

And now, as I sat in the quiet of my room, I felt a peculiar tingling behind my eyes, a sensation I hadn't felt in what seemed like an eternity. At first, I brushed it off as a trick of my mind, a remnant of memories long forgotten. But the sensation persisted, intensifying until it felt as though my entire being was ablaze with an unfamiliar energy. With trembling hands, I cautiously reached toward my face, running my fingertips over my eyelids, only to find that they were open. Light flooded my vision, blinding and overwhelming.

 Tears sprang to my eyes, the moisture a foreign sensation after years of arid darkness. I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden influx of sensory information. Shapes and colors began to materialize before me, hazy at first but gradually sharpening into distinct forms. My room, once familiar in my mind's eye, now presented itself in a whole new dimension, with every object, every texture, and every crevice unfolding before me in exquisite detail.

As I marveled at the world I had thought lost forever, a glint of movement caught my attention. I turned my head, taking in the message that seemed to be emblazoned on every available surface. The words etched themselves into my mind with an urgency that sent shivers down my spine: "Don't tell them you can see."

A surge of confusion mingled with fear coursed through my veins. Who were they? Why were they so adamant that my newfound ability remained a secret? And how did they know that I had regained my sight?

I rose from the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me, and stumbled towards the nearest wall. My fingers traced the words, feeling the roughness of the paint as if verifying the reality of the message. A sense of foreboding settled over me, a weight that threatened to crush the exhilaration of rediscovering my sight. What had happened during those two years of darkness? What had driven humanity to enforce such a cryptic command? 

A distant memory flickered in my mind: a conversation with a neighbor before the blinding, hushed words about some secret society, whispers of a conspiracy that threatened to tear the fabric of our world apart. Was this their doing? Had they foreseen the return of sight and sought to control its impact?

My thoughts spiraled into a whirlwind of paranoia and suspicion. Every sound, every creak of the floorboards, seemed amplified, as if the very house itself were whispering its secrets to me. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, monitored by an unseen force that was waiting for me to make a misstep and reveal my newfound sight to a world that had enforced its blindness. With trembling hands, I reached for the doorknob, my mind racing with a thousand questions and uncertainties. What lay beyond the confines of my room? What truths awaited me in the world that had been shrouded in darkness for so long? 

The weight of the warning seared itself into my consciousness, a command that demanded obedience and threatened dire consequences if I dared to defy it. As I opened the door, the world outside beckoned with an eerie familiarity, as if it too had been anticipating my emergence. With every step, the words echoed in my mind, a constant refrain that guided my every move: "Don't tell them you can see."