Lenses and Panes

in short-story •  2 years ago 

As I open my eyes, you stare at me - and I recoil as I reluctantly meet your gaze; I want to look away but your eyes, those green, piercing eyes, they lock me in place, they numb my will.
I try to ease the sudden tension, out of a reflex I shyly smile at you, identifying you as a human being, as my kin, but you... you don't smile back. The corners of your mouth start to jerk, to move, but your lips can only form as much as a grimace on your unearthly features, grinning at times, weeping at others, an abomination of human emotion no matter how hard you try.
But you do. I can see it in that empty stare of yours. In the weary flinching of your muscles. You try, you tried, you've tried for so long... and now you're tired.
Your eyes turn into fierce-looking, small slits of green fire, spitting venom and pinning me down - is it because we both know that I know? I know you know.
But I can't quite understand all this hostility towards me.
Was I not always by your side, now and ever? Was I not your only companion when you couldn't stand the world, couldn't stand yourself, to know of your existence, to see what you've turned into? You can't deny that, and I see that you agree. Those slits water up. A good liar, you are.
But maybe it isn't hostility? It's often mistaken for fear, isn't it. And there, you flinch! Got ya, buddy, you're scared to the death! So death it shall be! Tell me, what pours such horror into your head? Not the thought of you living and dying alone, not the thought of you having no purpose, we're way past that, are we. I bet it's something more... simple. And sinister.
Don't look down, Come on, let's let them know.
What haunts you the most, and stop your tears right there! Is the feverish, mumbling voice in the back of your head, trickling its poison into your thoughts and lashing you with your failures over and over and over again, smashing you into a bloody, quivering pile of self-loathing and inevitable repetition.
Still, there's no sound. The only thing you hear, and I know, because I hear it too, is the crackling of an idea. It nestled its spark carefully into your neck and now, as the fire is fed and grows by the minute, it illuminates the words carved into the insides of your skull, menacing and cruel:

What if one day the world sees me the way I see myself?

The awkward silence is too much. I know I should sweep away the little diamonds dropping from your face. But I won't.
I prefer simply turning away from the pane of glass.
Far from eye, far from heart. And back into oblivion with you.

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