Through Emily's Eyes

It's been three whole months since the accident took my eyesight. Ninety days since I've seen the sun or the faces of my friends.

I should have trusted my gut the first day that I had walked into that lab. It had just felt... off. It was a new space that had recently been picked up by a start-up company looking at creative uses for existing compounds. I wasn't privy to the real details. It was always, "Here Emily, see how this reacts to this." It wasn't terribly difficult; not after my years at the pharmaceutical laboratory in Phoenix.

Everything that I tested was recorded in a series of little black books provided by the company. The texture of the covers felt marbled and familiar; the kind of book that everyone had stashed in a drawer somewhere. The books were picked up at the end of each work day, never to be seen again. The amount of money they were paying me made it easier for my mind to gloss over the dirty details behind the scenes.

Until that Thursday afternoon.

A combination of inert solutions had been on the glass slide under my microscope. Using a small dropper, I added the requested amount of a volatile chemical to observe the reaction. The last thing I remember was a brilliant flash of white and a horrible, searing heat on my face.

I had awoken in the hospital the following day, minus the sight in both eyes.

The weeks that followed included two surgeries and a complete remodeling of my life. My own apartment became strange and unforgiving. I didn't want to be seen by friends and family; it felt too weird to feel their eyes on me without being able to gauge their reactions.

Being alone in my apartment has become my new full-time job. At first, I tried to surround myself with the familiar: music, my television shows, and a comfy spot on my couch. That had just made me feel worse. It only served to remind me of what I had lost.

What I really want to do is get out of this apartment and start fresh somewhere new; where no one knew me before or can feel bad for me now. The problem is money.

The company had quickly dissolved after the accident, making disability payments almost impossible to obtain. I'm suing them, but the lawyer assures me that it will take years before I see any of the cash, provided that I win.

So... I'm stuck here.

And, it's hard being stuck here.

What makes it harder is the fact that the accident should never have happened. The chemical reaction should have been small and controllable; I had worked with those same compounds for years. I'm kept up at night, re-living that day over and over. What had I done wrong?

But the thing is... I don't believe that I did anything wrong. That leaves foul-play. Had someone changed the labels on the vials? Switched something on purpose? Had they been meaning to kill me instead of blinding me?

I may never know the answer. But just in case, the nine millimeter that used to live in my nightstand unloaded is now within arm's reach with a full chamber. Who's to say they won't come back to finish the job?

On the afternoon of the ninetieth day since the accident, I'm sitting at the desk on one side of the living room. The sunlight is warm on my face through the window. The leather seat below me is comfortable, but my back and hips are stiff from too much time sitting here. My computer and phone are on the desk in front of me, both equipped with voice-activated apps to help me use them.

The intercom by the door sounds a loud buzz, startling me in the silence. Standing, I almost trip over a leg of the desk. The buzz chimes again as I make my way over.

Pressing the button on the left, I put my lips close to where I think the speaker is, "Yes?"

"Flower delivery here for you, Em. Should I send him up?"

"Sure, Hal. Thanks."

Who would be sending me flowers? My parents?

Making my way back to the desk, I grope for the gun. The faint sounds of footsteps in the hallway outside my door signals the approach of my mystery bouquet.

A knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"I've got a flower delivery for Emily Sinclair?"

"Just leave them by the door," I say loudly.

"I need a signature, ma'am."

Sighing, I tuck the gun in the rear waistband of my jeans. As soon as the deadbolt is released, the door is pushed aggressively in. The force knocks me backward. The arm of the sofa catches me between the shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of me mid-fall.

Heaving for breath, I struggle to focus on anything I can hear to help me figure out what's going on.

The door shuts softly. Heavy footsteps cross the carpet and then the linoleum of the kitchen. The sound of something glass being placed on the counter. An actual vase of flowers?

A deep breath is finally allowed entry to my lungs. Grateful for the air, I wheeze out, "Who are you? What do you want?"

The intruder is silent for a moment. "I'm just here to tie up a few loose ends." A male with a throaty voice. I think he's still in the kitchen.

Slowly, I climb to my feet, careful to hide my back from him.

"Stop right there," he says. His voice sounds almost... amused.

Immediately, I am angry. Rage rushes through me as I leap toward the kitchen and where, I hope, he's standing.

He laughs as he sidesteps me, his lips near my left ear. His breath is hot against my temple. One of his arms wraps around my shoulders, crushing me to him. "No hard feelings, right?"

My right arm is free to grasp the butt of the gun in my jeans. Without hesitating, I push the barrel into what I think is his chest and pull the trigger.

The blast of the gunshot deafens me in my close proximity. Blood spatters onto my face and hands; the coppery taste both shocking and nauseating.

Still locked on to me, I fall with him to the floor. After a few painful seconds, his movements below and beside me stop.

Dropping the gun, I hastily scoot away from him. My back comes up to the low cabinet doors in the kitchen. My mind is reeling.

It's a big apartment building, I'm sure people heard that gunshot. I only have a couple minutes to find anything I can about this guy before the police can get here. Slowly, I crawl forward until my hands find him.

Gingerly tracing the body with my hands, I feel stiff canvas with zippers and pouches beneath him. A backpack! It's a struggle to get it out from under him and off both arms. Tearing it open, the first thing my fingers find is the all-too familiar marbled cover of a small notebook. I'm almost positive that if I could see it, it would be black and the pages filled with notes from the company that blinded me and disappeared overnight.

Heart pounding, I dig further into the bag. It takes a few seconds to register the rectangular stacks of paper. There must be at least twenty-thousand dollars in here!

Hurriedly, I grab the hand towel hanging from the oven door. The thin cloth covers my hand, shielding the oven from any blood as I pull the door down. Shoving the backpack between the cold racks of the oven, I hear the shouts of police coming up the hallway.

Quickly feeling around to make sure that I didn't drop any of the cash, I start shouting for help.

***

Hours later, I'm escorted back to my apartment to pick up some personal effects. The police officer kindly guides me beneath the crime tape and through the door. The smell of blood is thick.

He waits near the door for me to pack a bag, never questioning my entrance to the kitchen or the fact that I'm wearing two backpacks, one slung over each shoulder.

Once outside, the cool night air cleanses the blood from my senses.

"You sure you don't need help getting to the hotel?" The officer asks me on the sidewalk.

"The cab will take me there, thank you," I assure him.

Standing on the curb, waiting for my ride, I'm feeling better than I have in months. Tonight, a shower and some travel arrangements.

Tomorrow, I'll call my lawyer from somewhere in the Caribbean.