I’m blind, so I apologize for the lack of visuals in my story. You will have to be blind with me.

I was born blind. But it’s not like I was born into a world of darkness, I don’t see darkness, I see nothing. It’s tough to explain; but with no visual distractions my life is based on my remaining senses.

When I was a boy, my bedroom was the basement. The room smelled of stale breath and urine. This room was my bedroom, my bathroom, my playroom, everything. I slept on the floor; only a thin, torn, sheet separated me from the cold concrete floor. I urinated and s*** in the far corner of the room, as far away from where I slept as possible. My toys were what I could find in the empty basement: old rusty nails on damp wooden shelves, rubble from a crumbling wall, corpses of dead bugs, and a few glass jars. I was not a sad child; I was not upset with my life at that point. This is what I thought life was supposed to be, and I accepted it. I was blind to the truth, and reality.

Every other night or so my father would come down and visit me. He set a plate of food in front of me, and would watch me eat. I listened to his breathing as it increased with every bite I took. He would then hand me a glass of water and I would have to drink the whole thing. After I ate he would sit with me and he would tell me things: “You’re a special boy. You’re very important to me. That’s why I bless you with this food and water. Now you have to be a good boy and thank me.”

Those nights were strange to me, I was raised into thinking that the things I did were what I was supposed to do, that this man brought me into this world and I was indebted to him. It was painful at first, but I grew used to it. My lips became chapped, and sometimes I could feel colorless blood run across my skin in unseen rivers. My arms and body would be covered in soft bruises and it would be tough for me to find the right angle at which I could sleep comfortable. I always ached those nights. I felt uncomfortable in my body, but that is what I was supposed to feel, according to father.

Some nights I would get sick, I would run to my bathroom corner and vomit. The smell of the room would become worse and my health would begin to deteriorate. To combat my frequent illness, once a month my mother would come into the basement and would scrub every wall and every inch of the floor with bleach. These are the only times I would go upstairs, into interesting smells that my nose never knew before – warm and happy smells. My father would bathe me, change my clothes, and make me give him thanks. A tithe, he would call it.

My mother was a very angry woman. I only came in contact with her on those days she would clean. She would be angry with me, and she would punish me for living so dirty. The pain was unbearable. The sound of the phone cables cutting through the air was drowned by the stinging in my back. When the lashing was finally over with, she would then dress my wounds and hold me, and she would let out quiet cries. She would tell me that she was sorry, that it’s not her fault she had a disgusting freak as a child. This process would repeat itself every month.

I would spend my nights lying on the cold uncomfortable ground, my nose penetrated by the smells of bleach, vomit, and stool. I would grasp my sheet tightly, the one tangible thing I had that connected me to the physical world. The one thing that made me feel human. Sometimes I would let tears run down my face, and tickle my nose. I don’t know why I was crying, perhaps because my body was sore, my lips were chapped, my nose stung. I wasn’t sad. I can’t really say what I was. I didn’t even know what I had eyes for, other than crying.

This was my life until one day, things changed for me. I woke up early. I knew it was early because I could still feel the cold, early morning air drift in through the cracks in the walls. Everything was quiet, the birds weren’t singing, the air wasn’t howling. It was like the entire world I knew hushed itself, sitting on the edge of its seat waiting for the next thing to happen. The house just groaned, and creaked softly, trying to warn me something was going to happen.

And then something did happen.

There was a loud banging, a terrible monster beating against old wooden doors. Then the sound of metal snapping. Feet pounded the floor, it must have been hundreds of pairs of boots stomping the floor. It was all so loud; there was yelling, things crashed and broke, and a gunshot. The yells were muffled through the floor, but I heard clearly.


“Jonathan Woods, you’re under arrest under suspicion of…” the sounds became muffled again. Thoughts ran through my head, I was so confused. Who was Jonathan Woods? The only people who lived here was Mom and Dad. A man started yelling upstairs, the sounds still muffled but less now, “Where is your child? There is no… in this house, where are… keeping him!?” Things became quiet again.


The sound of the door going into my basement creaking open broke the silence. I ran and hid in a corner, and balled my fists ready to fight. The sound of equipment clanking softly together filled the room.


“Oh god, this room smells.” Said some man’s voice I had never heard before, “Hello? Is there anyone down here?” I heard the click of a flashlight; my bare back scrapes against the wall. “Chief, there is someone over here.” A leather hand reached out and touched my shoulder. I jumped out and battered my tiny fist against this man. More leather hands grabbed hold of me, I screamed and struggled but I was not released.


I was carried outside. When the crisp, clean cold air bit my skin and my scars I stopped struggling. The officer released me, but handcuffed my wrist to his. I fell to the ground, the moist soil soaked through the tattered pair of jeans I wore. The smells of outside were so foreign, yet so beautiful and indescribable. I cried, for the first time in my life I cried because I was sad, not because I was in physical pain, but because I felt a new pain. A pain in my heart, and in my soul. My fingers ran through the grass, I even ripped some out of the ground and ate it. I didn’t’ know I was so hungry.

That officer was supposed to take me strait to a hospital, but first he stopped a donut shop and bought me a blueberry muffin. It tasted amazing. My taste buds were used to refried beans and peanut butter. It seemed impossible to me that food like this could even exist.


“It’s good isn’t it?” asked the officer with a sad chuckle. The officer told me what happened, but only years later did I understand: My mother called the police and told them what my father and she were doing; she was being eaten alive by guilt. The police moved in quietly, surrounding the house and battering the door open. When the police entered the room my father and mother were in, she attacked an officer with a knife. She was shot and killed. My father, Jonathan Woods, was arrested and put in prison for the rest of his life.

I grew up to be a lawyer, a blind lawyer, but a damn good one. But my life felt empty since that night. I was no longer bling to the horrors of the world, if anything I saw them clearer than anyone. I was never loved. I needed love. To be honest, I didn’t really know what love was. Where could I get it? Everyone seems so fascinated with it. I was tired of waiting for it; years I waited for it to enter my life. No more waiting. I would get it the way my father taught me. Being unable to see I became extremely dependent on sound, it’s funny how different women sound compared to men.

I stood in the darkness of the alleyway. The wind howled in between the buildings, and rain pelleted my skin. My right hand rested against the wall, unable to stand up in my excitement. I just wondered what it was like, to touch and feel something. How should I feel? I was listening to this alleyway. Listening to those soft, feminine taps on the asphalt make that distinct sound through the patter of the rain.

I took her. I bruised her and broke her. I struggled closer, and I stole her. She whimpered her silent pain, the same way I did when my father broke me. When my father bruised me. When my father stole me. “Love me, Love me.” I yelled in silent whispers. The rain fell harder, and the patter became louder.

My nightmares became my dreams. My demons released themselves and now someone other than me can listen to their voices. I am the broken child; I am my mother’s regrets. I am regret itself, personified through pain and fear. When I left her, bleeding and crying on the cold wet ground, I took her innocence and used it to cloak myself from the storm.

When I got home, and set myself a bath. I took that sheet, that very same sheet that attached me to this world and I put it in the water. I felt the liquid soak through the dirty blanket. I stripped naked, and set myself in the bath. I felt around the bathroom sink for a knife I laid and soon it found itself within my grip.

The blade sliced against the skin that tattooed my veins. Once again I felt blood run against my skin, but this time I wanted the blood to run. Although I could not see the freshness of my fatal, self-inflicted wounds, I saw my fate, and I walked into it with guidance of unseen eyes. I lied back, and let the world slowly fade away.

I was regret.

I was broken.

I was the stolen child.