Free The Visitors by Rebecca Mascull

moment in my life. Lottie kneels beside me, holding my hand. I feel the doctor untie the binding at the back of my head. I am relieved to feel the pressure lessen, and want to shake my flattened hair free. But then I am gripped by an almighty terror. I squeeze Lottie’s hand so hard she squirms, then quickly sign into her palm: ‘No. Tell him to stop.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I am afraid.’
    I have lived with my blindness all my life. Only weeks ago, I was given hope that I might see. Now the moment comes I cannot face it. The disappointment would break my heart.
    ‘Be brave,’ says Lottie. ‘We are all here with you.’
    I can feel tears well up behind the bandages. As they loosen, the tears escape. Lottie rubs my hand in comfort, Father and Mother touch my arm. The bandages are off, only two pads remain. Dr Knapp removes one, then the other. I keep my eyes fast shut. I see nothing. I will not open them.
    ‘It is time,’ says Lottie.
    I flutter my eyelids, awash with tears. My hand grips Lottie’s so tightly. I open my eyes.
    There is a flickering blur of haze. And I want to cry out, it is a failure, my eyes are still damaged. But I realise immediately that it was my tears, as I open my eyes wide and blink them away. I am hit by light. The most dazzling, incandescent explosion of light assaults me and makes me recoil. I cover my eyes but hate the darkness it brings. I uncover them again, and the colours hit me. I do not know their names yet, but they are irresistible, these shapes; these white ovals with tinted halos that approach me. And I remember these are faces, as the shape of eyes, nose, mouth and hair imposes itself upon my new vision and speaks its name – face. I am surrounded by faces all laughing and weeping, and I lift my hands up and can see my fingers reaching. I touch Father’s cheek and his salt and pepper hair, and next to him Mother’s is faded gold. And the big round face must be Dr Knapp, with a shock of white hair and a beard. And I turn to find my Lottie and her face is the most beautiful of all, with glorious blue eyes so wide and round. And red, red hair, which curls in waves around her pink smiling face, and her eyes shining with tears – how they shine – and I throw my arms around her and I cry and I cry with joy.
    I stand and stumble to the window. I am surrounded by green, greens everywhere. Later I know these for grass and bushes. It is November so the leaves are lost from many trees, and there are stark black lines of bare tree limbs against the white sky and the monochrome contrasts are so shocking that I almost turn from them, but I do not, I stare on fascinated at this cracked puzzle of sky and branches. Then I turn. I reach forward for Lottie’s hand. My, how her hair blazes. Father and Mother are holding on to my shoulders and the doctor is nodding. And Lottie holds her own hand up to me. But there are others behind her. Other faces. At first I think they are the servants, come to share our joy. But these faces are different. They are smiling and friendly like my family, yet they are not the same; they seem lit from within, a bluish-white glow as if a lamp shone from their eyes, their cheeks, their hair. And I realise all at once, they are not my family and they are not the servants. They are the Visitors. And they are real. I can see them.
    One stands close behind Lottie – a woman with black hair and black eyes. Her skin glows violet-white, and she is in perfect focus, as if she were made from different stuff than the others. I realise from the way people are talking and looking at me and moving around that no one can see the Visitors but me.
    Are you real?
I ask the dark woman. I think it, inside my head, as always. And she can hear me. When she answers, though she moves her mouth, I can still discern her words inside my mind.
    I only came selling lavender. Now I cannot find my way home.
    Her dark eyes are like holes in her head. I move towards her, and Lottie thinks I am