A/N: Kate Fitzgerald's P.O.V. Fit it in where you like.
They say sight is a gift. Perhaps they are right. But perhaps they are not. Who are they? Do they know me, know you? Do they see with their "gift" the same things I see? I think not.
Every day, I see the same four white walls and the same white bed sheets. I see the same unreadable look on my mother's face. Always somewhere between worry, fear and relief that I did not pass away last night, that she has at least a few more moments with me.
Sight is a gift if you use it wisely. See the wind blow through the trees, the baby's smile. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They say that too. But what is beauty, and how can you see it if you never get out to find it?
If I could choose what I see, I would go round the world and see the sights, the Cirque de Soleil, the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State building, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the pyramids of Egypt, the Coliseum in Rome, all the sights and beauties of the world.
I have been here, in this very room for three weeks. I have barely left it, everything comes to me. I am the invalid, the dying girl, and I have accepted that. What I can't accept is the way nurses drop their eyes when they enter my room, the great effort it takes to look at me, speak to me, the tears in my family's eyes when they visit me.
If I could not see, I wouldn't look at these things. If I could not see, none of this would bother me.
But most importantly, if I had not got "the gift of sight", I wouldn't see the lone tear drip from my sister's eye when they tell her I won't ever come home.