I can’t see. Not because it’s dark. Not because I’m afraid. I just can’t see. You see (excuse the pun), I’m blind. I don’t recognise my surroundings. How would I, you might ask? Well, I don’t recognise the smell. Everybody knows that when you lose a certain one of your senses, your others are heightened. I’ve never known what it’s like to see. I was born this way. I don’t know what the sky looks like. Or the ocean. I don’t know what my bedroom looks like. Or my entire house. I don’t know what my friends look like. Or my parents. I can’t place the smell, not yet, but I could tell that I was in a car. I can tell by the seats. And the fact that there’s a seat belt buckle either side of me. I must be in the middle seat. I don’t know what the car looks like. I’ve never seen a car. All I know is that I’m with someone familiar. I don’t understand. How can I be with someone familiar but not recognise the smell and the pattern of their breathing? I think it’s only one person. Female, I’m guessing. Her breath is naturally lighter than a mans and there’s a tinge of Chloé perfume filling the limited air inside the car. I wonder what colour the car is. I wonder what colours look like. I suddenly feel vulnerable. I don’t feel vulnerable as often as I should. Not for a blind girl anyways. I’m stubborn and independent, but something about this felt off. “Jenny,” a quiet voice. Nervous. Not what i was expecting. She knows my name. I know this person. “There’s something you need t-“ “Who are you?” I intercepted. “Jenny. I- I’m your biological mother.” I was not expecting that. “I’m sorry I gave you up. It was complicated. I was young.” Was she pleading with me? Trying to make me understand? “You gave me up because I’m blind...” I was only stating the obvious, trying not to sound confused, trying not to sound vulnerable. “No. I didn’t. I promise. I had no idea, not until after.” “So why?” I think a tear just ran down my cheek, warm and salty. “I was raped.” I was not expecting that.