I wrote this story today off a writing prompt from a friend. I'm not sure I got it exactly right, but I hope y'all like it. Here is the prompt:
Third person, short story about someone who recently became blind; but you can't say how they became blind.
Blind Allegiance
Chance awoke with a throbbing headache. The slightest
movement caused excruciating pain. Even lifting his eyelids required more
effort than he was able to muster.
He lay still and tried to remember what had happened, but no
matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t figure it out. It didn’t help that he
couldn’t hear very well, either. Without eyesight and hearing, it was hard to
figure out where he was or what caused all the pain. One thing he did know was
that he had to move. No matter how much it hurt, he couldn’t just lay there.
He forced his eyes open. Total darkness greeted him. He
couldn’t see even a glimmer of light anywhere. Did somebody push me down a well, he wondered.
He quickly dismissed that idea. His enemies would have found
a more creative way to rid the world of him. He thought maybe someone had
buried him alive. He hadn’t been able to move enough to figure out how big the
space he was occupying actually was.
He decided to worry about where he was after her regained
the use of his body.
Tentatively, he moved the fingers of his right hand. All
seemed well so he tried the left hand. The pain that shot through his hand and
up his arm brought tears to his eyes.
It was a while before he worked up the courage to try and
move any other limbs. The toes of his right foot worked, but the ankle was
another matter. He didn’t think it was broken, but definitely sprained.
When he tried to move the left foot, scalding hot spikes of pain shot through his body. His screams filled the air.
Chance had no idea how long he screamed. He hadn’t felt pain
like that in years. The last time, he had almost lost his hand. If his ankle
was in as bad a shape as his wrist had been back then, Chance knew he didn’t
have long to get it worked on. It had taken the doctor thirteen hours to
reconnect all the tendons and repair the damage. Chance hadn’t believed he
could do it. His hand was literally hanging by threads of muscle and tissue. He
only hoped modern medicine could come to the rescue again. If he ever got out
of whatever hole he was in.
If the extent of his injuries were as bad as Chance thought,
he knew he would need help escaping from wherever he had been stashed. From the
vibration of his screams earlier, he knew the space wasn’t small enough to be a
coffin-like structure, but wasn’t a huge room either. If he could trust his
hearing. With his ears still clogged up, and the total darkness, he couldn’t be
sure of anything.
He kept trying to remember what he was doing before, but the
hit to his head seemed to have scrambled his brain. He would get snatches of
memories but that was all, and they didn’t make much sense.
He kept seeing himself with another man, one he couldn’t
quite place. They were standing in front of a village. Just before the vision
evaporated, Chance saw the man hand him a briefcase.
No matter how hard he concentrated, Chance couldn’t remember
anything else. He could surmise, however. He had received briefcases in the
past. Briefcases full of cash, diamonds, guns, and bombs.
He just had to figure
out what was in the one he kept seeing in the vision, and where the briefcase
was. The contents of any case he had received could never be allowed to be
traced back to the owner.
First things first,
he thought. I have to get out of here
before I can find anything.
He tried to sit up. The world spun crazily, but Chance
toughed it out. He used his good hand to brace himself and sat still until the
room settled.
His stomach threatened to rebel. The taste of bile in the
back of his throat urged Chance on. He reached into the darkness, trying to
figure out where he was. He pushed what felt like a piece of concrete, which he
was sure caused the damage to his ankle, off his left leg.
He tried to push himself with his right hand and leg, but
the pain from his sprained ankle wouldn’t allow it. All he managed to do was
wear himself out.
He collapsed back onto the floor and considered his options.
Chance had been in some hairy situations before, but nothing compared to being
broken and battered beyond movement in a dark hole. He had always had a plan
before, but as far as he could see, there was no plan for his current
predicament except getting help.
To that end, Chance screamed.
He screamed until his throat was raw. He screamed until his
chest hurt. He screamed until he couldn’t scream any longer because the saliva
in his mouth had dried up.
Once his own screams died down, Chance thought he heard
others. He pushed back up and tried to find something to throw. Anything that
would make enough noise for someone to find him. He threw rocks and a can of
some sort, all the while trying to scream some more, but his voice wouldn’t
cooperate.
He blindly searched the area he could reach, frantically
trying to find something that would help. He was getting desperate. Chance knew
he didn’t have long. His strength was draining as surly as the blood from his
ankle.
His hand found a small, cylindrical object. He inspected it
the best he could in the dark. The object was slender with a button on one end
and wires coming out of the other. Chance was sure he knew what it was. It was
on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn’t quite place it. He tried to trace
the wires, but could only reach so far.
He was still holding the object when he heard someone approach.
He called out, hoping they would find him wherever he was buried.
Chance was confused when he heard footsteps behind him. He
tried to turn, but his broken body wouldn’t move. He listened to the steps as
they walked toward him and heard someone say, “Poor bastard.”
“Hello,” Chance said. “Who’s there? Can someone turn the
lights on?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the man replied.
Chance was still trying to figure out the pity in the man’s
voice when another man interrupted.
“His hand!” the man yelled. “Get back!”
Chance figured out, right before the first bullet struck, what
the object he held was.
