The Eyes That Forgive
By Julia Sweeney
My story is not a particularly interesting one. It’s not as though I’m insane, or sane for that matter, I just love the sound of a knife slicing through the skin of the innocent. As their screams of pain and fear die down I relish every moment their thick, red blood flows. It doesn’t matter who or where but it has to be done with a knife. Knives draw lots of blood. And, they die slow enough for me to feel their pain with every scream that flows out of heir mouths, every red drop that flows out of their wound. I don’t enjoy pain, just the look in their eyes, the feel of their hands, and fall in love every time. Not with the people, no, but with death. The day I myself meet him will be glorious, and probably extremely painful. I was told once that I would die in an elevator and this I believe to be true. I know that what I do is wrong, but it feels so right. And as the blood from my victims flows onto my hands, and their souls mingle within my brain, I can forget who I am, what I’ve done, everything wrong with my life just disappears from my head. As I gently carve off each toe during the last seconds of their lives, I know that this is real, that life matters. As I break their soft, cold fingers and hear their final silent screams, my heart sings with joy. But, when it’s all over, and I dump the mangled body into a river, or bury it under a tree, I am no longer satisfied. I must have more.
So I kill, and I dismember. Each one different and yet always the same. But the eyes of the dying, why must they look upon me like that. Like they forgive. It is the worst and best part of the killings. The worst and the best. The ones I kill do not have names or faces. They do not even have bodies. They aren’t people, only eyes. Eyes that I have kept in a jar. Blue ones, brown, green, black, I even have a few that are gold. None more precious than the one pair I didn’t keep. The pair I see every day. The pair that belonged to my sister.
She was blind and in pain. She begged me to end it, end it all. Eventually, I crept into her room on that final night, through the only window. There was nothing special about that night. But I remember the way the waning gibbous moon shone against the silver blade of the knife, resting in my hand. The only lights in the room once I drew the curtains were my sister’s unblinking, unseeing, gauzy white eyes. I was too late. I had taken too long and she had died without me. But I didn’t now it. So I went to her bed and I cut a single slice across the part in her hair, all the way down to her skull. I don’t know why I did it this way but as I watched her face peel away from the bonebeneath I knew that this was what I wanted, what I needed. And my life was about to start. But first I needed to leave this place. So I carefully pried a pill bottle from her cold fingers that had collected some of the blood that had gone dripping down her arm. This would be my only reason to continue living for the next seven months, but I was happier than I had ever been and probably ever would be. And I knew I could only live life through death.
So I sat, and I waited. I walked, and I climbed. I lived in a dark cave that smelled of rot and eucalyptus. Alone every night I ate nothing but moss and various mushrooms. I waited so long, and for I know not what, that I forgot I was still alone. Alone and bored. One day, the 28th of November to be exact, I was done waiting. So I went back down the cold and snowy mountain to choose my next victim, only to realize that this time I was the one being followed. I was being hunted, perhaps they knew my secret. “But no!” I told myself, “How could anybody know?” And I continued to search. And I continued to find. And, I continued to kill.
But there it was again. I’m sure I heard someone behind me, someone breathing, someone living. And I knew, too, that it was I to be killed this time. And so I left once more.
Now we come back to where I started, in a small residential area by the name of Rosen-Garten. Here people know me. Here I am neither more nor less than a History teacher. My day life is normal, and at night I usually get to sleep before 3:00 am. So I am happy. I still kill; I never said I don’t or that I stopped at any point in time. But hush now. For I can feel that presence once again. The breath, behind my head. Perhaps they do know, perhaps I have sinned a few too many times and now they know. I know much, but not who they are. But they are here now, that I do most definitely know. I wonder whom sometimes. I thought I was so careful, killing on a towel to be thrown away later, or perhaps a large sheet that I placed on the ground for this purpose alone. I must wash that piece of fabric many times each day. Maybe my blood will be the next to stain it.
They left. While I was thinking they escaped form me. That is proof that they know. And so they must die, before others find out. I believe that if people know my many secrets, know they are not the only ones, or even the first ones, to be killed at my hand, then their final glance will not be one of forgiveness. It would be one of betrayal. They must be found. I must be forgiven.
Night by night I search for it, the source of my displeasure. When those who I seek help from prove to be utterly unhelpful, I kill. Do not think me cruel. I am but abiding to the cruelty of our natural world. The rule that I live by is, “ Die for your life”, and all those who I have killed had no more need to live, thus they had a need to die. My job is to cause that, to kill them. But I cannot find it. It will surely find me. So I am back to waiting, this time I know what for, and I shall get it. I shall get my killing, find my peace, let those who wish to live be allowed to die.
It worked. As I was waiting within the trees on the outskirts of town I felt it, they were here, my time had come. I had decided long ago that I deserved to die, now the perfect opportunity had arisen. I would be missed, rather the character of James Steven I created and assumed would be. I have watched many die, killed many. I have hung them on the sides of boats to have their skin scraped off by barnacles. I have put them in boxes that filled slowly with water, until they drowned. I have even tied their arms and legs to horses, each to a different of four, then lit those horses tails on fire so they would run in opposite directions, thus ripping off the persons limbs. I have never burned anyone though. So I climbed into a circle created by a ring of eyes interlacing with a ring of toes, all soaked in oil, and I lit them on fire. The flames danced happily, shapes of women in darkly colored gowns with corsets beneath and narrow shoulders, tapering at the waist to flair out again into bell like skirts, rich trim winding around all the curves, outlining, defining. And the men, red gold pocket watches poking out from elegant vests hidden beneath even more decorated waistcoats dancing along the interlocking circles. Through the dry brush closer and closer to me. It would watch me burn. I would die smiling so I could finally have the chance to kill death. So where was it? The fir was less then a foot away when I heard it, a screaming, he was here, my fear and grief was finally here to kill me. It would final twin. My turn had come. As I have waited before, I waited now. The flames licking up to my fair skin, pale white from a life in the dark. The last thing I saw was a light, before I left. Not to Heaven or to Hell, only to death. Finally I was done, I was gone, I had burned the bottle stained red with grief. I left with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes. And so I was finally done.
or not
Sorry if this doesn't seem finished, I need help with setting details and other suspenseful tools that don't sound as stupid and cheesy as many of my efforts do.
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