The eyes

I open my eyes and then close them again. It makes no difference.

I am shrouded by darkness.

 I'm tied to the wall of my basement, propped up but stooping, like a forgotten doll on a girl's shelf. I tug my arm, bring it as close as possible to me, and place my bound hand in between my cheek and my shoulder, rubbing it like I do with Peter's hand when he kneads the hard knots on my shoulder blade.

Stop it, he always laughs, I'm supposed to do the massaging now, not you.

It's a duct tape, I think, as the cold, plastic scratches my cheek. Where am I? And why am I here? Who did this to me? Will I see Peter again? The calmness with which I come up with a list of questions like I am ticking off items on my Christmas gift list is not something that surprises me; I am a doctor. And I seem to be in shock. 

If the room wasn't dark I could have seen tears obstructing my view. But now I just feel them well up, like sap from a tree, and then stand still for a while, wondering which way to go, it's too dark for them to see.

I sit up more assertively and I try to focus on something that will pull me from surrendering to the shock and the knowing that I am possibly at the last place I will ever be, having no idea what place this is. 

This vague darkness has no shape, no contours, could be a square or a bubble; I don't know. I do know that I fell asleep to the sound of Peter running a bath, and then I woke up here. My heart kicks me in my chest. Does this mean that Peter is not safe either?

I hear a creak. Not the whining of a room stretching and settling in the night; This creak is controlled, there was intent in this creak, a beginning and a middle with an abrupt end. Whatever I was given to render me unconscious, it seems to have hindered my ability to match sounds with their source. 

Like a book for babies that sings "moo" if you press the little cow button and then explains, it's a cow, to reassure the young inquisitive minds, my brain makes the connection.

It's a door, the baby book chimes. I feel my body freeze as I expect light to seep through that door, which sounds as if it made a full circle, creaking to open and creaking to close shut. No light comes in.

And then, a pair of floating, red-hot glowing tiny orbs that slide closer to me. I look at them, chill growing like vines on my spine, heart kicking again furiously.  Maybe I will die from an escaping heart, not from what the orbs want to do with me. 

The lack of blinking, that's what has me confused and I don’t see it right away. I don’t see it until the eyes, because that is what they are, are standing a breath’s breadth away. 

They look at me and they seem to be lowering in height. Eat and drink this, a voice says and I am taken aback from how it sounds. It belongs to a man, I think. He sounds like he just learned how to talk today, holding two armfuls of vowels and consonants and struggling not to drop them.

He leaves a platter of food and a pitcher of water. 

The soft glowing eyes visit me three times a day to bring food and water. A bucket has been placed within reach, and it is being emptied regularly. My captor seems to value the significance of sleep because every night he gives me something to drink that puts me in a long, dreamless slumber, and when I wake up I am where I was before.

How many days have I been here, please, I ask. The unblinking red glow stood still before replying that I have been here a week. Will you let me go, I ask, emboldened by the sudden realization that I am not dead yet. 

No, the voice replies, I will kill you once my body is ready for my next host. He sounds almost apologetic, what an inconvenience he is causing me.

Host? Host of what, I ask. It is better that you don’t know, he says. Better that you don’t know what your body will do to everyone you know. 

Please, my voice trembles as I plead. I am not from around here, he says. 

Not Minnesota then, I ask, polite upbringing making an untimely visit.

I am not from this world, he says and now his peculiar way of talking makes some sense.

He leaves, and for the first time I realize that my eyes have adapted to this darkness and now I can just about make the rectangular shape of a door before he shuts it behind him. There was no light source behind that door but the dark wasn’t as concentrated, nor as impenetrable.

Today I finish my meal slower than usual. As the eyes float, I pick up the plate and offer it but I trip and the plate falls down, crash-landing. I feel the shards flying and I bend over right away, promising to clean up my mess, but not before I slide a shard underneath my foot. The shard catches on my skin but my week-long barefoot captivity has made my heel harsh like sandpaper, and I am safe from the shard.

The eyes do not seem to notice what happened. He seems to be getting weaker, the glow dimmed into a muted red. I see that and I think, next time I will attack.

I wait for the next meal; Yes, his eyes are now embers so soft I think a long sigh from me will be enough to extinguish.

I work my binds silently. I cannot be sure he isn’t watching. He asks whenever he comes in whether the bucket is full, so I cannot be sure, not really, whether he is truly preserving my last scraps of dignity or he is pretending to make me grow bold.

The door creaks open and the eyes move mechanically towards me; Glide and freeze, glide and pause. He cannot move as fluidly as he did before. And his eyes are almost cinders.

My anticipation rises like steam from a boiling pot; It seems that now I can strike.

I take a deep breath. I go over my plan. I will strike between the eyes and then run away, following the same route the eyes seem to carve in the darkness each time he comes.

When the eyes pause near me, I do just that. Silently, I attack. I find instantly soft flesh, too soft, this does not feel normal. If a person could melt like a candle over a candelabra, this is how their flesh would feel like.

I strike again and again, and I find no resistance. The eyes collapse on the floor soundlessly. They remain open but the light slowly dims further down while I kick the mass with my foot and jump over him.

I go to where the frame of the door seems to be, and I find a corridor, I run its length and then I find another door, this time with a light source behind it. Nothing is locked but I don’t stop to question my luck, turn it over to find a label showing where it’s fabricated.

Finally I reach a room, a basement of sorts, a solitary lightbulb and some stairs leading upwards. I run up the stairs and my breath catches. I am weak and my rush of adrenaline will ebb soon. 

I go out the basement’s door and I am in an abandoned house, furniture standing like Halloween ghosts with their sheets draped over them. The windows are shut, and the soft light that slips in between the slants illuminates the dust floating. 

The light. It’s beautiful, but I shouldn't waste time appreciating it.

I run to what seems to be the apartment’s door, half wooden panel and half blurry glass, and I open it, expecting that this door would be locked. It isn’t.

I don’t question that either, and I run outside. The sun is blinding; It seems to be noon and I am on a busy street. I run to a pedestrian, a young mom with a stroller, and say please help me, before I finally collapse. The last image I have of her is of her eyes, where they glowing red?

I wake up and I am on a hospital bed. Peter is there, holding my hand, tears in his eyes as he explains they have been looking for me everywhere. I cry, and then I cry again when I give my statement to the police. I see them looking at each other as I tell them about floating red eyes and new hosts.

The doctors cannot find anything wrong with me, and soon I am released, and we are back home. 

I go to our room, light and airy, and I wonder again what shape was my captivity cell. Was it a square room? Or a circular one?

I walk to my dresser’s table, and sit down, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Peter walks behind me, and he starts kneading the knots on my shoulder blade. I purr like a cat, bending my head to the right, catching his hand between my shoulder and my cheek, rubbing it gratefully. 

I close my eyes and enjoy the gentle pressure when I notice he hasn’t told me laughingly to stop, he is doing the massaging now, not me.

I open my eyes and in the mirror meet his own. They are glowing a soft red. As are mine.