With my eyes still heavily bandaged from a cornea transplant, I stumbled in the dark living room, only for my husband’s mistress to intentionally trip me into the glass coffee table. As I lay bleeding on the shattered glass, my husband kicked me hard in the ribs, laughing, “The blind bat can’t even see us packing up her grandmother’s priceless art collection.” They assumed my temporary darkness made me a helpless, oblivious victim in my own home. They didn’t know I had installed a military-grade, voice-activated smart security system just yesterday. I spat out the blood, whispered the command to lock all steel shutters, and released the guard dogs.
The first thing I heard after the glass shattered was my husband laughing. Not screaming for help. Not saying my name. Laughing. My eyes were still wrapped in thick white bandages from the cornea transplant, the gauze pressing darkness into my skull. The doctors had warned me: no stress, no sudden movements, no falls. For…