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Blind Bliss, Shattered Faith: Intro

Switch sat squarely on the bench within her cell, not eyeing her surroundings because she couldn't. She had been born with a thick layer of skin covering them, melting into the rest of her face as to shield her from the known, and the unknown. She was essentially blind, but not blind at the same time. Her pupils were constantly covered in a blanket of red during the day, and black during night, whatever those were; she had been told the color variations (whatever this 'color' is…?) were caused by the amount of "sunlight" streaming through, through the past several years there seemed to be less and less red, however, and more and more dark. Still, Switch sat there on the cold, uninviting concrete bench in her cell with the barrel of a gun placed precisely between her lips, pointing upwards in her mouth and upward as to penetrate the roof and lodge in her brain.

::Suicide:: ...................

Thoughts flashed through her brain. She pondered. She pondered a lot, not being able to see what was being shown, imagining various combinations of light and dark, she had never seen an object, but was able to make out things in a ghost-like appearances in her brain.

Like smoke.

She could see patterns of light and dark, like smoke billowing wildly on a black sheet, formed by her touching things and with her fingers, making out the forms. She had been told that a "gun" was a mechanical device, both doing good and harm. She had been taught, carefully, how to hold it, as to not cause damage to herself in the process…

::Blindness...blindness::

A man had let her out, out of "The Matrix", promising her vision for the first time, something he could not guarantee her, apparently, in "The Matrix"

::::FLASH::::

That was 4 years ago. Since then, The Doctor, as he was called, had surgically cut the skin around her eyes, as to provide her with sight, she was thankful for him. She wore white. It reminded her of the smoke she saw before being provided with vision, a privilege, she saw it, not a necessity. She learned that long ago. The white resembled the blankness of before. She was sick of the black.

The black.

Not for her, no. She was sick of the black, the darkness. The blindness.

But she had made it out, out of the binding chains of reality, the crucifixion of truth. The Damnation.