Shutter

It was morning. I knew because my alarm was chiming its disgustingly, sweet tones. Persistently, the alarm chimed with the sound of synthetic ascending tones. Actually, the name of the ringtone was Ascending. My sister set it for me. 

I groaned because I had to root around on my nightstand to shut the infernal thing off. The ringtone was supposed to be energetic and uplifting. It was supposed to help start my day on a bright note. The only thing those cloying, happy sequences of tones did was remind me of all that I'd lost.

Nothing has been bright, physically nor emotionally, since the accident. 

Sighing as I opened my eyes, I knew what the morning would greet me with - inky darkness. Sometimes it's charcoal gray I see. Sometimes it's indigo. Today, it's black coffee. 

When I first woke up after my accident, the darkness was rich and textured like anaglypta wallpaper. I would see odd shapes and starbursts. I had the most fantastical visions in the darkness. Mythical creatures would crawl from left to right, diagonally and sometimes in circles in my visual field. I thought I was going crazy. The nurses told me my brain was adjusted to my blindness.

I'm a photographer. And my eyes were trained to see the smallest details or the beauty in the big picture. And suddenly my eyes saw nothing. But my brain, oh my brain craved input. So I saw things behind my eyes. 

Unfortunately, I also saw the crash over and over again as scenes through my viewfinder. Each memory caught with a click of a shutter button. CLICK. I would see myself lost in thought over the argument with my agent. Her words playing on repeat in my mind: "I need more from you." CLICK. I'd see myself focus back onto the road and see the red traffic light ahead. CLICK. I'd see the brake lights of the little Honda a half a car length in front of me. The silver emblem "H" on the hatch seared into my memory. CLICK. As my car rear-ended the compact car, I saw the shocked eyes of the child in the backseat staring back at me. 

It was the last thing that child ever saw. Me, in my obnoxious BMW, about to plow into her and mother.

Her name was Hillary. Hillary was 10. Hillary had her whole life ahead of her. Hillary's mother lost a whole life with her daughter.

Finally, the darkness always came back after seeing the crash. Then, it's all I can do to keep screaming until my throat is raw. 

********************

As I fumbled with my phone to silence the alarm, my doorbell rang. "Fuck!" my voice echoed. I gingerly made through my living room toward the intercom near the door. 

I'd gotten better at making my way around my flat. At first, I had my furniture moved to the periphery of my living room so I wouldn't trip over anything. Yet the openness began to feel constricting. I found myself reaching out for a reference point as I walked through my living room. Walking toward my intercom, in darkness and bereft of any tactile stimuli; I began having existential crises.

So I had the living room furniture moved back to the way it was or at least the way I remembered it was And I tripped over my ottoman and fell over the arm of my sofa and stumbled on my large Persian rug. I hurt myself a lot. But the pain reminded me that I was still here and that I hadn't disappeared into some nothingness.

I pressed the intercom button impatiently and my sister's cheery voice rang out, "Hello, Sister. Glad to see you're up." I didn't respond, but just buzzed her in and left my door unlocked. I shuffled back to my couch and waited. 

The clicking of my little sister's stilettos alerted me to her arrival. She closed and locked the door, then joined me on the couch. Her perfume quickly permeating the space with floral notes. 

"How are you today?" she asked.

"Oh, living the dream. And you?" I simpered. I could hear her grind her teeth, then take a calming breath. 

"Let's go take a walk. It's a bright, lovely day", she chirped.

"I know it's a bright, lovely day but I can't enjoy it…" I ground out.

She sighed. "You can still feel the sunshine even if you can't see it, Sister." She paused a beat. "You look so pale. I'm worried about you", she ended in a worried tone.

Once I was moved from intensive care to a private room, the nurses would open my window every morning. And every morning, I’d wake with my face turned toward the morning sun. And every morning, I'd forget I could only feel the sunlight. Every morning was torture until I remembered I couldn't "see" the sunlight.

Then I began to curse the sunlight, curse the day, curse my sister's perky attempts at pulling out of my despair. Despair was all I had left. It was all I deserved.

I tried to deflect my sister's concern. "You're wearing sky-high heels, how in the hell can we take a walk?"

She scoffed. "I've walked in heels for years. Come on, now…"

Still deflecting, I changed course. "Who shot your last job?" It was a painful thing to ask and know but just wanted her to lay off of me. My sister was a model. Occasionally, I'd shoot her; but our professional lives rarely intersected. Still, I knew some of the photographers in the fashion world.

"No one you know and no one important. Now let's go walk…" she stood firm. Then she physically stood and pulled at my arm. "Please, let's get you up and out of here for a few hours." 

"No!" I bellowed, snatching my arm away. "I don't want to walk! I want to be left alone!"

For a slightly built woman, my sister was strong. She yanked back. I heard her breathing heavily as she held back tears. Yet I pictured her pretty face twisted into a scowl. She sighed and composed herself. 

"I know you are depressed and traumatized and unsure, but you will find a way. You will find your way. You have to take one step, then another, then another. Did you call the specialist to help you adjust? She can help you. You can work again…" she pleaded.

"I'm a photographer. An artist. HOW IN THE FUCK CAN I WORK?!" I screamed at my baby sister. Then (without tripping over or bumping into anything), I stalked to the closet where I knew my equipment was haphazardly thrown in during a previous meltdown. 

I pulled out the camera that was hanging on the hook inside the door. Then I started clicking the shutter button like a mad person. I aimed the lens everywhere. Into the closet. The floor. Out the window. My living room. I might have turned the damned thing on my own face. I might have spun in circles. I don't recall. 

The only thing I remembered was my sister's pleas for me to stop. Then her sobs. Then I flung the camera onto my carpeted floor and ran toward my bedroom and flung myself across the bed.  Again, without tripping or bumping.

Soon, my sister's sobs slowed, then stopped. Moments later, the door shut and was locked. I bitterly cried myself to sleep.

********************

A week later, my intercom buzzed impatiently. I'd been camping out on my couch hoping my sister would come back even though I hadn't reached out to her.

As soon as I pushed the button to speak, I heard the voices of my sister and my agent excitedly chatting away. "Hey, let us in. We've got something to tell you."

I waited on the couch after I buzzed them in. Minutes later my sister and my agent burst through my door. 

"Tell her", my sister giggled.

"Your photos are...sublime. I've got you a show…" my agent's cigarette-soaked voice piped up.

I was confused. "What photos?" I asked. I turned my face back and forth to each of their voices.

"The photos you took when I was here last week", my sister blurted out. "You took dozens of them...they are surreal…"

"No. I will not have my...my lowest point advertised for all to see", I shuddered.

I heard my agent step closer. "These photos. They are real. Painful, beautiful…this is what I meant when I said I needed more…"

"So I had to lose my sight to edify my art", I interrupted in utter disbelief.

My agent groaned in frustration. "That was not what I meant. And you know it."

"A CHILD DIED! A LITTLE GIRL NAMED HILLARY DIED! I KILLED HER!" I screamed at them both. Didn't they understand? They were gushing about my tantrum captured on film when a child's life was snuffed out. 

I felt both of them sit down on either side of me. My sister's perfumed arm wrapped around my shoulders. She sighed. But my agent spoke first.

"It was an accident. You didn't set out to cause any harm to anyone. It was an accident", she ended in a whisper.

My sister held me tighter and I broke down into body-wracking sobs as I clung to her. She whispered into my hair, "Sister, you have to let go of the guilt. It's going to kill you and...I can't allow that. Please…"

********************

Six months later, my show opened to moderate success. But it was enough for me. A couple of my photos sold and I sent the proceeds to Hillary's mom anonymously. It felt wrong to keep the money when the impetus of the show was a child's death.

I was doing better as a person. I was learning how to navigate life without sight. I realized the main impediment to my emotional recovery was how isolated I felt. My service dog and my new acquaintances at the Department of the Blind and Visually Impaired gave me hope and inspiration and renewed purpose. 

My renewed purpose was to teach; or more accurately, guide blind children to tap into the beauty of creating art.

On the afternoon of my first class, I was almost vibrating with excitement.  I could smell the finger paints.  I closed my eyes and colors swirled and spun like Dervishes.

Once all of the children and settled into their seats, I smiled widely.  "Hi, guys. I'm your new art teacher. My name is Emma. Today, we are going to learn how to take the light you feel and make beautiful things. You guys ready?"