SHORT STORY LINKS

“What plausible reason, Mr. Devon, do you have for this?” screeched the hefty voice between the tightly clenched pearl teeth. 

His words dripped as if they were some sickened honey, intended to derive or force an answer from me– still it is my own reasons for which he has been detained.  Of course, it was no reason that I intended him to know.  With a steady gate (of many small steps) I shuffled around the damp room beneath some old house.  I inspected the rope that I had used to secure his feet to the sturdy oak wood legs of the chair, and I smiled with glee at the dripping blood from the torn wrists of the pitiful creature who questioned me and my reasons.  The binding rope on his legs was already wearing away at his skin, leaving raw portions of skin open to the moist air.  While the barbwire remained tightly wound round the wrists and forearms, gouging out pieces of ripe flesh with every writhing movement he made.  From the piercing barbwire, trails of thick red blood, ran down his arms, ran down his hands and fingers, ran down to the tips of his nails and then fell to the dusty stone floor.

“Does it hurt?” I questioned from behind his chair.

Since he did not respond to my first question (which had such an obvious answer) I leaned in placing my cracked lips next to his sweat-covered ear and whispered softly into his ear– so softly that I know he could barely feel the hot breath on his tingling skin, “does it hurt?”  Still there was no reply to my question, no hint of a nod from the feeble form, no anything that could indicate he even heard my question. 

My smile spread, I could feel it widen across my face, as I reared back and paced around and stopped in front of him.  I watched his eyes, those deep brown eyes, with such piercing pupils, that I parted my stare after a few seconds, though I could feel his eyes searching me, tearing my fleshy body apart and seeking out the hidden secrets of my soul.  “Stop you fool!” I screamed at him as I spun around to face the rickety stairs.

I heaved a few heavy breaths, and looked out the stairs, slowly counting the steps:  one, two, three… and so on until I at last counted seventeen.  Only the tiniest hint of light shown from the top of the stairs, as it managed its way under the door.  With the four candles on the candelabra, which rested heavily on the small three legged round table, near my entwined prisoner, I could clearly see the entirety of the cramped room.

It was only seconds since I had turned away from the gaze of my feeble creature, when I spun back around, swinging my clenched hand round, slamming it heavily into my prisoners jaw.  The resounding crack seemed to echo with a dull thud, as the blood splattered across the room spraying the nearest wall with a fine red mist.      

“God damn” I screamed aloud as the skin on the top of my knuckles split open.  “You think that you can mock me!” I shouted at the slumped figure in the chair, “You think that you can hurt me?”

I know that he heard that, I watched as his head rose ever so slightly from his slumped form, and I watched his deviled brown eyes as they peered back at me.  His saliva blended with the fresh blood in his mouth, creating a sickly, runny blood-like fluid that simply dribbled down his chin and dripped silently to the floor.  Yet, he just stared at me, peering past my mortal flesh!

What foul specter was he?  What immortal vermin had he become– that he could see through my fibrous tissue, through my mottled skin!  This uninvited prying was most discouraging and most antagonizing.  His illegitimate gaze cut beyond the bounds of the earthborn and stripped away my callous hide.  It had to stop.

I glanced at the small wooden workbench that rested at the back wall, behind the evil peering, yet fragile man, who sat so battered in my chair.  My weary eyes searched the glinting hints of resolution, which lay so silently, waiting to be used by my righteous hand.

It was at this moment, that he decided he would again question my motives.  Amid his blood and salvation he spat his feeble words in my direction, as I shuffled by him.  “What reason…” he spat, though he never finished the question, as my bleeding hand slammed into his jaw again, with an audible crack, being heard. 

I smiled with glee at the gaping wound that I left on the side of his face, and at the protruding, pale white, bone that I clearly could see.  My hand throbbed; for sure I had broken my own hand with the sheer force of the hit.

“Pitiful” I mumbled beneath my rasped breath, as I stumbled to the workbench.  Each glint offered another solution to my seemingly eternal pain.  With anticipation, I slid my hand over the cold objects, which lay on the worn and rough wood.  The nails would work well, the file and chisels would be effective too, and of course there was the rusted sheers.  But which one would be the best for my personal needs.

The nail.  It took only a matter of a few moments of introspective reasoning to reach the obvious conclusion, that indeed the nails were the best tool.  I waited for a few moments, as I held a few of the nails in my left hand.  He had to be awake when I began my work– I wanted him to know what happened, and how.  The compressing wait was nearly unbearable.  The room shrunk in on me, the air became stagnant and thick to the point that I could barely draw breath, and the sweat on my brow nearly blinded my vision. 

I do not know how long I waited, or even how I managed to wait.  I knew that as soon as he would wake, those evil eyes would again bear down on me and tear my soul apart.  At length, I figured that I would do one eye while he was unconscious and the second eye, once he was able to see what I was about to do.

Six times I wrapped the barbwire around his wilted head, ensuring that it would not move during my procedure.  His slight movement with each successive round brought a smile to my face, as the realization that he would witness the entire event, was becoming a reality.  However, I found that it was hard to secure the barbwire to the back of the chair, so at length I decided to pound a nail into the backrest, through the knotted barbwire.  Surely that would hold it secure enough.

The screw nail would work the best, though it was horribly rusted.  Soft brownish-red powder dusted off onto my hand as I set the nail into place.  “This might hurt” I giggled as I reared the hammer head back and swung with all the force that I could muster.

To bad I was behind him as the steel hammer head slammed into the rusted head of the nail.  Just as the thud of the impact reached my acute ears–he jerked violently in his chair, and his blood-shot eyes shot open in shocking pain.  I could hear his gasping breath, and smelled the stench of fear and horror as it oozed off his drenched body.  Amid the violent convulsions, my bindings held true and strong. 

“What–what is your reason… your reason…” He stammered, and gagged amid heaving breaths. 

With a smile, I leaned in close to his ear, and at the same time grasped the end of the rusted nail, which was imbedded in the back of the chair (and his back).  “No reason,” I said calmly as I savagely twisted the nail. 

When his legs twitched ferociously and convulsed uncontrollably, I nearly laughed aloud.  Suddenly, his legs went limp, though I could still hear his gagging and gasping breaths.  “Did that hurt?” I questioned him as I slowly inched my way around, stopping only when I was face to face with him. 

I must say that the inches that separated my eyes from his, enhanced his power tenfold.  When his eyes locked with mine, I nearly lost all nerves–I nearly failed at my task at that crucial moment.  Without hesitation, without thought, I raised my hand.  I was armed with yet another nail, but this one was not aimed at the chair, nor was it intended to secure some new binding, but instead, its soul purpose was to resolve my pain.  As my hand raced towards his face, I watched as his eyes widened, as his face twisted in absolute horror. 

The fractional second, in which the sharpened tip of the steel spike penetrated his eye clear fluid gushed out, and down his face.  He gagged, screamed, violently convulsed and writhed in his bindings.  The bindings held again without failure.

His face was scrunched up, as he tightly squeezed his eye lids closed.  From his left eye, the nail protruded, like a magnificent monolith.  Blood and fluid flowed from the wound and down the nail.  I had at last succeeded in annihilating the ghostly stare.  However, I could not get a clean strike at the other eye, which was closed tightly. 

I tried to force it open with my hands, but as soon as I tried to stab with the new nail, he would scrunch it closed again.  How long I tried to get the second demonic eye was beyond my comprehension.   It was after some time, that I got the stapler and simply stapled the eye open. 

It took three staples in the upper eye lid to keep it open, and two staples in the lower eye lid to hold it down enough.  The result was a wide open stare that was filled with shock and horror.  How it must have felt to be unable to stop the terror.  Maybe in that moment he understood how I felt, maybe he could understand my lurid pain.  His remaining, now stapled open, dark brown eye twitched rapidly as I brought the next nail in line with his widened pupil. 

“This will only hurt for a moment,” I reassured him as I eased the nail up to the edge of his eye.  “Just for a moment, then the pain will be gone,” I said again as I eased the nail through the slick outer skin of his eye.  Puss-like fluid poured from the gaping hole.  He howled for a moment, and then went limp.  “See… the pain is over,” I whispered softly.

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            “Mr. Devon, what was your reason for continuing the mutilation of his body, after you had removed his eyes?” 

            “What kind of question is that you fool?”  I shot back at the investigator.  “I had to clean up the mess.” 

This investigator, who was indeed a rotund man with wispy clumps of silvery age, is accompanied by a younger and far slender fellow.  The poor accomplice did very little but stand behind the obvious Master and cowers in terror, or confusion at my deeds and work.

            It was obvious that the Pupil and the Master had no idea of what I was talking about.  Their blank expressions on their faces gave away the feeble grasp of my reasons behind the further work that had to be done.  After all, how could they possible have understood the reasons for my work?  It was only after a few seconds of thought that the Master decided to interrupt my deep thoughts again.

            “What was your reason…?”

♦    ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦

The gruesome task had been completed, but his face was a mess.  How could I leave this poor man in such a horrible condition?  It only took a few seconds to pull the staples out of his right eye, and a few more seconds to pull the nails out.  But the holes in his eye lids were hideous.  Then there were the flakes of flesh and eye matter that hung out from the semi-vacant sockets.  I had to clean it up.

I used the chisel and slowly cut away his eye lids, so that the mangled remains would be smoothly cut, instead of the barbaric ragged tatters that were there after my original work.  With a damp rag, I wiped the thick, dried blood from around his face and eye sockets.  I discovered that a spoon worked the best at removing the internal portions of the eye.  It took several scoops to remove the majority of the internal structures.  However, the rear of the eye seemed to be strongly attached, so I really had to scrape at the bones to get the remaining thin reddish film, which covered the bones at the far end of the eye socket.

Easily I finished my cosmetic work and unbound his head.  I unwound the barbwire carefully and removed the nail from his back.  It was at that precise instant that he jerked and twitched his head, gagging a few times and then did nothing but whimper. 

“Do not cry,” I offered in reassurance, “the work is done.”

“For what reason…” was all he managed to mutter between gurgling and labored breaths. 

It must have been hard to talk.  I had yet to clean his mouth out, and it was caked with blood with covered his lips.  Then there was the sticky fluid from the eyes, which covered his mouth as well.  God only knows how much went down his throat, and with all of the yelling earlier it was a wonder that he could talk at all.  Though, he still did, and what amazed me was his persistence in discovering my reason.  Why did he have to know?

While he mumbled beneath his breath, I methodically put my tools back in their proper places.  The chisel, hammer, nails and stapler all went back on the old wooden work bench that was on the wall behind him.  While the portion of unwound barbwire, which was no longer needed, was placed back on the wall off to his side. 

This is where it began.  As I turned to place the wire on the wall, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed in the faint candle light of the dark room, that he turned his head towards me– as if to look at what I was doing.  How is it that this pitiful fool, whom I had fixed, managed to stare at me still!  There are only blank holes in his head where his once powerful brown orbs sat.  How could he still penetrate me! 

I stood, frozen in place, at the edge of the room, with my back planted firmly to the wall.  I stood as if I were one of the ancient stones that were used to create the wall.  Not a muscle in my body moved:  I batted not an eye, I moved not a muscle, my heart ceased its rhythmic beating, my lungs paused their breathing, I stood silent, and I stood still.  And still he stared right at me, right at my heart, and right through it to my soul!  But how could he?

“Mr. Devon,” he uttered in whispered breath, “what–what… reason…”  was all he could manage with the strength that he had.  Though his gaze maintained a steady stare, a steady gaze, which remained so fixated on me!

I stood transfixed, locked in his eternal gaze.  His bare eyes pried at me and tore deep into my inner being.  I searched the gaping holes, which remained, and found only the pale colored bone that glistened with the remnants of blood and fluid, and a never-ending emptiness.  An emptiness that was sure to swallow the whole of my soul and body if I could not manage… manage to break the fool from his prideful power. 

With my back to the wall and the wooden work bench, I fumbled around with my hands in search of any tool that would assist me in ridding this pitiful Demon of its hollow eyes, which vexed me now.  Hours seemed to slip so silently past as my hands searched and searched.  It was when my hand grazed over the rough surface of the large file that the thought occurred to me.  If I removed the sockets, those hollow holes of the infidel– then I would be rid of the vexing stare, rid of that Demon’s hold.

At this moment, the gaze had still not been broken.  He managed somehow to stare directly at me, though I was nearly behind him completely.  It looked as though he had turned his head around completely, facing the rear side of his body in some twisted contorted way!  “How is this possible?” I muttered quietly, for I knew that no man, could possibly contort his head in such a manner, and stare with such a spellbinding gaze. 

Feverishly I grasped the rough hilt of the iron rasp.  It was time to finish this mess.  I found it very hard to move up to the demon who sat there with the foul gaping eyes.  He sat motionless as I inched towards him, with the rasp still gripped behind me. 

When he broke the silence, his words burned in my head.  With his head still twisted around to see me, I watched, as his mouth moved for a few seconds.  It took time for him to formulate words through his broken teeth, fractured jaw and blood soaked mouth, but he did formulate them, and spat them at me with venomous rage.  “What ancient evil has begrudged me here… and tortured my tattered soul… and for what reason?”  His voice cracked as he finished his nearly whispered statement.

“Enough fiend!” I screamed at him. 

His head jerked back to the forward-facing position, and finally the gaze, which had held me, was released.  Without hesitation I bolted towards the trapped Demon and with my right hand grasped his hair and forced his head back, while I brought the rasp up to his face.  I froze.  I was only inches from his face, when I pulled his head back, and his gaping orbs pierced my eyes and I stumbled. 

The rasp, once held so tightly in my hand, fell with a dull sounding thud to the ground.  My ever tightening grip on the fine strands of his hair faltered as my knees buckled under the oppressive weight of his demonic stare.  I crashed to the dusty stone floor and laid there for many moments; frozen in the horror of the piercing sockets which I alone had witnessed. 

The true quandary at this point was how was I to complete this task, if I could not bare to look at the work that was to be done? 

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            The Pupil, who was so eagerly looking over the shoulder of the Master, seemed almost too eager for proper words to describe.  It was then that he decided to interject into my story. 

            “You felt as if his eyes were demonic?  That they could peer through you and twist your inner soul into a charred and feeble form?” the Pupil said more as a question than as a statement. 

            His voice was filled with confidence, but was marked by a high pitched sense of anticipation or possible anxiety.  What did he have to be concerned about?  My reaction?  As if I, in my bound state could somehow injure him, or lash out at him?  I nearly laughed at the notion, and at the symmetrical appearance of my condition, to that of my Demon’s.

            “What a powerful statement for you to make,” I started as I shifted my gaze from the Master, to the Pupil, “what a powerful assumption in reason.” 

            Even as the words came out of my mouth, I could feel him uncomfortably switch his position (leaning behind his Master) and he immediately shifted his gaze from me, to the floor.  It was obvious to me that he was uncomfortable with my position and the fact that I stared at him.  Maybe he would better understand the need for me to complete the work that I had began. 

            “Mr. Devon,” the Master interjected harshly, “please, continue your account...”

            “But of course.”  I mocked in contempt, as I abruptly cut him off before he could again ask what my reason was.

♦    ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦

I found myself, as I said, on the dusty floor.  The rasp had fallen off to the side, and lay only a few inches from my outstretched hand.  Because I realized that I could not finish the deep, as it required that I look at the Demon’s eyes–I left the rasp lay on the floor.  I figured that it would be just as easy for me to think on the floor, as it would be for me to think while on my feet.  And he could not see me here, as I hid beneath his sight. 

His labored breathes were steady, and I could hear them clearly in the lowly room.  The deep, cerise blood, well coagulated on the ground, smelled richer and stronger too.   Faint candle light seemed almost to be absorbed by its depth, leaving a wet looking, dark pool on the lighter, dusty, stone floor. 

From my down-cast position, I was able to see easily what was beneath the evenly slatted stairs.  Tin jugs, glass canning jars, and other sundries lay scattered about on the cloth covered shelves, which lined the back wall, behind the stairs.  What creative genius, indeed.  Why I did not see this perfect option so clearly, and plainly, visible to me, is beyond my rational comprehension.  The cloth.  I could use the cloth to cover my eyes while I work.  Though simple in ideation, the fundamentals behind the mask is obvious– it would let me work, without seeing his hideous eyes.

Weakness still held its terrifying hold over my legs, so I crawl across the dusty floor.  It was simply easier to crawl then to try and stand.  That and, while prone, it was harder for the Demon to lock eyes with me and slay my spirit.  I kept my head down, staring at the fine fissures in the stone work at the base of the floor.  I watched the dust drift in front of me and the tiniest of particles dance across the vacant floor on my wind-sweeping breath.  The temporary reprieve from the idealistic work at hand was a joy and offered me courage to finally complete the ominous task.

It was easy to squeeze behind the stairs.  My smaller frame made it simple and my nimble body contorted to the tight space between the boxes and wood framing.  Once I reached the back side of the slatted stairs, I slowly moved the canning materials and glass jars off of the dark colored cloth (it was to dark to really see what color it was) onto the nearby box.  With the greatest care, I stacked the containers of pliable metal and crystallized silicone into mismatched cairns. 

Each pile was systematically created; one for the glass and another for the tin and then a third one which was comprised mostly of the tin, but topped with a glass jar.  I admired the creation, and watched as the candle light was refracted off of and through the glass.  It was the only moment of peace that I had known, since the onset of my pain inflicted by the Demon, who sat so pallid, bound to the wooden chair just on the far side of the slatted stairs.  It was time to get back to my work.

The fine cloth that covered the shelf was thick and would be a perfect opaque mask, one that I did not hesitate to don.  Overall the thick cloth was seven of my hands long and three of my hands wide, which made it far larger than what I needed to conceal my eyes from the horrors.  Steadily I folded the cloth into sevenths; folding it over and over, until it was one hand wide and three hands long.  The thick visard, which I created from the heavily woven cloth, fit snuggly around my head.  Though I found it difficult to tie the thick material behind my head, I eventually succeeded in the miniscule task. 

The world around me instantly faded to the blackness–drifting into the depths of my own mind.  The recreation of the old room that was around me was simpler than I thought it would be.  Clearly, I recalled the exact location of the restrained Demon, just as I knew the location of the rasp.  To be blind, after having seen the world, in all of its grace and grandeur, is not as painstaking as I once thought that it would be.  Every color of the rainbow danced eloquently before my inhibited sight, so clearly that I surely thought that it was real (a fact soon to be my sorrow). 

In my mind I counted the number of steps, from the floor to a comfortable arms reach.  I figured that I could easily rest my hand on the seventh step; and to test my theory of my memory of the room, I reached out.  I did in fact feel the warm wood of the step in front of me, just where I thought it should have been.  With the renewed confidence of my personal awareness of my surroundings, I turned quickly toward the crevasse that I had slipped through to get under the stairs and stepped through.  It was then that I slammed head long into the wooden support beam that ran horizontally, about my forehead's height from the stone floor.  I had apparently forgotten that it was there.

 It is amazing how acute hearing becomes in the absence of sight.  In the darkness, I felt like the world around me was spinning.  My arms flung out wide, grasping in the vast emptiness for something, anything to grab a hold of.  Who would have thought, that in such a cramped space, my flailing hands would not find a single hold?  When I hit the ground, my head slammed into the box that held the self created cairn of glass and tin.  The resulting cacophony echoed between my ears, with such clarity that it was nearly deafening.  My head spun in the swirling blackness as I lay prone on the floor amid the shards of glass and empty tin cans. 

Seconds later, I swear that I heard that degenerated Demon utter some hushed laugh (in my direction).  The utterance was hushed and softly whispered beneath his feeble breath, though clearly discernable by my keen ears.  What creature would laugh at me, mock me, when I have him within my grasp, when his life is in my delicate hands? 

I rolled over onto my back and searched frantically with my hands for the base of the stairs.  I needed something to get my bearings with.  In the small space, it took only a few seconds to find the base of the stairs and a few more seconds to find the box, which rested at the entrance to the stairs.  Pain shot through my right arm as I moved about on the floor.  Ripples of pain–stinging pain–shot through my arms and nearly forced me to double over.  Quickly, I found the shelf and pulled myself back to my feet. 

Then I realized the dire circumstance, in which I presently stood, I swooned in fear and pain.  As I stood beneath the stairs, I could feel the warmth running down my arms, like little rivers of heated water.  The thick iron smell of blood ravaged my nose.  Softly, I slid my hand over my arm and found dozens of small, sharp objects protruding from my skin.  From each incision slick blood oozed, and ran down my arm to my fingers.  Suddenly, I felt woozy and again unstable on my feet.  I leaned heavily on the bare shelf, for support. 

After a few moments passed, I began to feel better and the blackness of the room seemed to stop spinning.  The realization that I was bleeding from my own arms, did not deter me from my most important task–a task, which had yet to be completed.  For only a second, I paused, and then straightened my torso and readily adjusted my clothes. 

With one hand I located the cross beam, which I had slammed my head into earlier, and with my other hand, I discovered the box that blocked my way.  It did not take me long to recall how tight of a squeeze it had been, when I wiggled my way back into the corner beneath the stairs.  And I knew that while blindfolded, squirming my way back out of the crevasse would prove to be a challenge.

Excruciating pain rushed over me, the moment that I attempted to slither side-ways through the narrow canyon, between the timbers and boxes.  Every inch that I slid, forced the shards of glass embedded within the flesh of my arm, to cut ever deeper.  By the time I had the first half of my body through the canyon, I could hear the drops of blood, as this splattered on the concrete below.  I took in a deep breath, forced my body the rest of the way through, and nearly dropped in the reeling pain that followed my expulsion from the tiny space beneath the stairs. 

♦    ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦

“What kept you going?” the Master asked in a low tone, which did not waver at all. 

I smiled at him.  The truth of the matter was that the sheer pain kept me going, though that seems all too backwards to make any sense.  I guess that I did owe him some response, and at the very least, I could answer one of his questions.  “To be honest,” I began in the clearest and well spoken voice I could muster, “once I start a job, I must finish it.  You do understand that, don’t you?”

I watched the Pupil closely, as the Master’s brows wrinkled slightly as he thought out his next approach.  “Yes,” the Master offered in a stern tone, “we must all finish the jobs that we start.”

“Then you understand the reason for my continued work–and for my drive to finish the task that I had started, irregardless of the pains it inflicted on me?”

The Master leaned in towards me, and in a barely audible whisper stated in a low tone, “That is why we must know your reason.”

I could barely help but smile at that thought.  My reason… they were still trying to solve the reason for my masterpiece, for my epic final work?  Indeed, I knew that at the end, they would understand fully the reason for my duty, for my work.  “I see,” I offered in an equally low tone, “then let me continue.”

♦    ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦

Since I was aware that the rasp was still lying on the floor on the opposite side of the Demon, I figured it easiest to crawl along the floor in search of it.  It took me only a moment to locate the chair in the middle of the room.  When I bumped into it, the Demon issued a low moan that made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end, and sent a chill down my spine that ended at the very base of my back.  I shuffle-crawled around the backside of the chair and found the far wall, but not the rasp, which I had dropped. 

The beads of sweat on my forehead soaked the thick cloth that was my holy visor.  The sweat burned my eyes, and seared them with ravaging pain.  I tried to rub the sweat out of them, but, I found it a futile attempt.  Each time I rubbed the cloth, my eyes burned even hotter.  At length, I just bit down and bore the pain–for I could not remove the guard, and risk seeing the Demon’s eyes again.

Frantically my hands pounded the earth and stone, seeking out the wayward rasp.  I found it, resting against the wall, waiting for me to find it.  It took only a few seconds for my skilled hands to identify it as the tool that I required to complete my holy work. 

“Naïve or Demon from hell spawned,” I spat at the restrained evil, “it is by my hand, that your wicked gaze be removed–by my work I will remove your horrid and vile stare from the earth.  No one will see your contemptuous look, ever again.”  I felt within me, a sort of power that welled up, strength from within me, a strength that surely would sustain me. 

"What reason..." was the only words he could sputter out, between his blood soaked heaves. 

"What reason?"  I questioned back at him, with a smile.  Surly he knew, and it was not my place to explain it to him.  And I had no desire to go into the gruesome details.  I dropped voice to the lowest possible tone and nearly whispered from the floor, "Your stare is the Devil's work, and you are his lackey."

He did not respond to me.  Not a word was whispered, nor did his barely tangible breath shift from its rhythmic pattern.  However, because of my precautions, I could not see any movements that he made.  Though, I suspect that he made none.  He could not move quiet enough; I would have heard him, if he would have moved.  He did not move. 

Those were the last words.  "What reason...?”  Why did he not understand the reason for his cleansing?  He should have understood the importance of the work, and he should have felt honored that it was to be done.  No Demon, with such a vile stare, had ever been integrated into, and accepted by society.  After my work would be completed, surely he would have been embraced, and no longer shunned–no longer shoveled off into the dark alleys or sewers. 

I arouse behind him.  My shadow covered his head, and wrapped around his feeble body.  Gently, I rested my bleeding hand on his shoulder.  Even there, I could feel the sledging of his violent heart.  It pounded with such a resonating clarity that my perfect ears heard every contraction as a man would hear the hammer hitting the stone. 

With the greatest care, I slid my sweat soaked hand slowly up his neck.  His heart raced with incredible speed, as I continued up the side of his head.  My fingers danced over his ears and twisted into his thick black hair.  The time had come.

I forcefully reared his head back as far as the chair and the bones in his neck would rationally allow.  For many minutes, I held him tightly in that position.  I knew that his eyes were staring at me, trying desperately to pierce my blinded eyes and shred me to pieces.  I had succeeded over him; I had beaten his hell bound stare, with my cunning and genius.  Though, I can still–in the dead of night–hear his gurgling screams. 

The rasp grazed over the flesh of his lidless sockets easily, and with little effort.  Tightly I held his head in position, as he screamed, twisted and convulsed in the chair.  A musty smell, the smell of fresh marrow permeated the air, clinging to the inner flesh of my nose.  Just as I was about done with my work, he surged forward, and jerked his head violently.  So violently, in fact, that I tore a handful of hair from his head.  It was after that volatile burst, that he finally laid still. 

With my blinded eye, I could not clearly see.   I had to be sure that the work was complete, before I removed my only saving grace (the veil).  I took great care, as my nimble fingers danced about the remains of the Demon’s face.  It was smooth, with a few rough spots, though it was really hard to determine the perfection of the work, due to the slick blood and fluid that covered the bone.  I was content when I realized the sockets were flush with the remainder of the skull. 

Without hesitation, I threw off the veil of thick cloth, and gazed with delight on the work of my hands.  From the base of his chin to the upper part of his forehead, created a concave bowl shaped indentation.  It was smooth, and slick with fresh blood (which pooled about where his nose was).  Some of the torn muscle still was strewn about haphazardly, but a few quick runs of the rasp, and prodding by my dexterous fingers and all was in its proper place. 

It was at that moment–I saw it.  Within the hollowed bone and whittled flesh, I saw the phantasmal eyes peering at me from the greatest depths of hell.  It did not blink, it did not look away, and it burned my soul!  My heart stopped beating, my breath ceased in that moment, and I pounded repeatedly with the rasp.  Blood splattered across the room as I pounded. 

Only when the motionless lump of flesh remained, did I stop.  I heaved great sobs, and blood soaked tears streamed down my face, for the Demon’s eyes, even in death remained. 

There was but one choice left for me.  There was only one way for me to escape the stare, the burning, the horrid stare, the Demon’s foul soul eating gaze!  I stumbled back against the wooden work bench, as his eyes remained locked onto me.  They twisted around his body, as if they were still attached!  I could see the faint hint of his head, contorted in a horrific fashion, allowing the eyes to stare at me! 

I fumbled frantically, in a panic.  My hands at last found the reprieve, found my savior.  The pain was nearly overwhelming, as the rusted nail pierced my eyes.  I can remember seeing the nail coming, seeing the point drawing close, as if it was in slow motion.  I did not blink, but watched as the tip was thrust through the slick outer wall of the eye.  As soon as I had pounded out the life of the one eye, I quickly turned and stabbed repeatedly at the only remaining eye.

Everything went black.  Not black like when I had the cloth over my eyes, but black like the depths of space, or black like that of the deepest night, when clouds covered the moon and stars.  I saw nothing!

In total freedom, I frantically disposed of the body.  I buried it in the basement, and carefully replaced the pavestones, in their proper place.  Meticulously, I managed to clean the small basement, by smell and touch.  To be honest, I am not really sure how long I was in the basement.  When you can not see, it is difficult to judge between night and day, or even the passing of time at all.  What seemed to me as a couple of hours could easily have been the days.

When all was done, I found the stairs, and I climbed.  I counted each step as I went:  One, two, three and so on until I counted seventeen.  That was the top of the stairs, as I knew from counting them earlier.  It was harder to open the locked door without my sight, than it was when I could see.  I did open it at length.  I flung it wide and embraced the freedom.

Instead, I came face to face with the Demon.  His broken body stood amid the blackness, his carved head about his slumped shoulders, and his eyes staring through me!  I do not remember screaming, or even moving.  A long time passed as I stood, alone, being ripped apart by the foul gaze. 

At last, I found the strength within myself, and began ripping at my eyes, tearing at my face.  I felt the burn as my nails gouged out chunks of flesh.  The iron scent of blood filled the air as I continued ripping. 

I fled.  I ran, stumbling through the house, tripping over everything that was in my way.  I had to get out, I had to get away, I had to escape the Demon.  Every time I turned around, he was there, standing in silence, wrapped in the inky blackness.  He stood there, and did nothing by stare at me.  He did nothing but watch me!  He does nothing but watch me!

♦    ♦    ♦    ♦    ♦

“You can see him–now?” asked the Pupil. 

I could hear the fear and obvious disgust in his almost squeaky voice.  “Yes,” I offered in a hushed voice, “yes.” 

The nearly silent whine of the chair, and the soft steps on the floor told me that the Master was leaving the small room.  It was only a few seconds after that, that the heavier shuffles could be heard, from the Pupil.  “Why do you scramble out, with such fear?”  I asked as they reached the door.

In the darkness, I could clearly hear the weight of the breaths, as the almost visibly (to me) became more labored.  The seconds flew passed as I waited for my answer.  I was kind of shocked, when the Pupil finally offered some semblance of hearing me at all. 

“For what reason…” he started, though he never did finish the whispered question. 

I interjected loudly, “For what reason do you scramble, like a dog from me?” 

“Honestly,” the Pupil started, “I am scared to death of you.  You are hideous and evil.  Your lifeless expression– your empty stare–scares me, it sees through me!”

“I see,” I said with a smile rippling across my distorted face, “for what reason…indeed.”