[ WP ] In the future , people with disabilities are required to use augmentations to restore sight , hearing , paralysis , etc . Those who do n't comply are heavily ostracized . You have been blind since birth , and are terrified of the idea of sight .

They tell you that you're broken, and you suppose you believe them. Broken: an adjective. Having been fractured, impaired, no longer functioning, a computer with its innards torn out, a wind-up toy that's slowed and juddered and come to a stop, gears filed down, static. Broken. You suppose that's fair enough - you do n't know much besides stillness. You've felt things in motion, of course, every once in a while when a dog rushes past your leg or a doctor seizes your hand to lead you, fumbling, to their office, but mostly, it's still. You live in space, things in stasis, undisturbed until you disturb them, passerby caught in tiny orbits as they swerve to avoid you, one hand on their child's back, you assume, to steer them away from the man tap-tapping his cane along the ground. It's a regular rhythm, comforting, your cane, and you can hear it thudding behind your eardrums when the doctor tells you you've been approved. Tap. Tap. Tap. I can schedule the surgery, he's saying, soft and faraway and you remember being told that doctors wear white coats and you wonder what white is. Tap. Tap. Tap. It's the crack of a rifle shot now, your cane, and the gentle tick of a watch, and you think of Poe and even if you do n't know what it is you think you can feel white, crawling along your skin like beads of sweat dripping in reverse, cold and tangible when it trickles under your skin. Touch and taste and smell and hearing and - Jesus, you're choking on it, sight is caught in your throat like a fat, viscous glob of mucus and you do n't know if you should spit it out or swallow it. The doctor puts his hand on your knee, and your back goes straight, head snapping up like you've had cold water poured down your spine, and he tells you in that same low, slow voice that he's going to set a date, and you nod, the motion quick and jerky, a gear slipping a notch, and ball your hands. You stay awake that night. Staring at the ceiling, you think wryly, and twist the sheets up round your shoulders till nothing could get under the covers, and you, for some absurd reason, shut your eyes tight and fall asleep to the tap of a wall clock. A week passes. Two. Three and the date of the surgery is upon you and you almost do n't go. You do. It'll be quick, they're saying, and painless. A quick pinch and the implant's in and you are n't broken. You sit in a chair, and fold your arms in your lap, and wait as your head is braced and a local anesthetic is applied, and - God, you always thought that hearts ticked, but maybe that's broken too, because you can hear yours, pounding in your ears, and it sounds more like tapping. 
 
 There's a pinch, and white floods your vision.
