Painted Eyes

Like in Edgar Allan Poe's "the Telltale Heart" it was his eyes that tormented me.

He was a very kind looking man, he almost seemed to be suppressing a smile. But his eyes--such eyes. They were a light brown, and they followed me. It was the eyes that convinced me that he lived. I never saw him move, but in the dark, when I could see nothing, I knew he did.
His unblinking gaze drove me mad. If only once he had looked away from me, or even blinked, all the horror I felt would have vanished in an instant. I cannot stand being watched. I knew I had done nothing wrong, I was innocent, but yet his eyes stirred in me feelings of such terrible guilt! I could not bear living under his relentless stare, stern and eternal.

The days, at first, were bearable. Then I could seek refuge in other rooms of the house, but always the image of my empty room, scrutinized by his painted, living eyes, haunted me. But the nights--the nights were torment. Even the very first night, before the true horror of his scrutiny had possessed me, I could not stand his eyes. I lay awake, staring into the darkness, knowing that cloaked by invisibility he had begun to breathe. I was convinced he would desert his frame altogether, that I would feel his painted fingers brush my cheek. I slept with a knife in my hand, but he always knew when I fell asleep, and waited until then to walk over to me, to comb through my copper hair, to trace the bones of my face.

He did it to drive me mad. He wanted me to become a raging lunatic, God knows why. Perhaps out of spite.

I cannot say how the idea entered my mind, but once there it refused to leave. Perhaps I too had power over him, perhaps my eyes as well as his had strength. Perhaps he moved only when I was blinded by night because my observation kept him motionless. Perhaps he could not move while I watched. My eyes, perhaps, trapped him in motionlessness, confined him to his crumbling frame.

That was the sin his merciless eyes accused me off. He hated me because I kept him imprisoned. But instead of alleviating my torment, this realization only made it worse. He hated me, and he had good reason to hate me. Perhaps next time he walks over to me he will unclench my fingers on the knife, take it, and slit my throat, my wrists, open my veins, drain my life and take it for his own. Perhaps with my blood he could live, make the force of my life his own.
About a year after he had come, I could stand it no longer. I took my knife and slashed the canvas, again and again and again, shredding it, then burnt the pieces.

He was gone, but the terror of his watching remained. I could still feel the painted, moving eyes on my back, invisible, perhaps only imagined. The stares of others seemed to accuse me as his had done, the cats especially, with their slitted pupils and glowing eyes. They did not need to die, I thought, they were innocent, had done nothing, I only imagined they watched. But their stares too were unbearable. I did not kill them, though, I am not cruel, not inhuman! Their eyes only were gone. They wandered blinded, but even the white scar tissue of the blank sockets shouted a silent accusation, called me murderer, demon, outcast.

I ran from the cats and their blank eyeless stares, ran from the house haunted by the ghost of the murdered portrait of a king long dead. But every eye watched me, accused. I could not bear it, retreated into the woods to live like an animal, far from all life, but even the trees and grasses seemed to watch. I screamed and screamed for help, reprieve, and then I sobbed, but no one heard, no one answered! And then they came, only one at first. His eyes--human eyes! Dear God, spare me the human gaze!--were worse than the cats, worse than the trees, worth than anything I did not think about my actions, but ran at him, gouged his eyes out with my fingernails, tore his body limb from limb, threw it into the river that would carry it so far away from me. But his eyes did not stop haunting me. I dreamed first of his rotting head, threads of flesh clinging to yellowed bone, but soon there was only a skull, giant, grotesque empty sockets always watching.

More of them came, too many at once, all in white coats, and they stabbed me with a needle, carried me away, and I woke in a padded cell, stared at by so many eyes! Dear God, far too many eyes, human eyes, grey and green and blue and brown--dear God, brown like his had been, the same light brown! All watching, staring, never leaving me in peace, never! Even when I sleep, when all is dark and no eye can see, even then they watch me, not the living eyes but the dead ones, the painted eyes, the cat's glowing eyes, the light blue eyes of the only man I killed, never looking away, accusing, their gaze burning through my skin, the layers of tissue and penetrating my soul, piercing, dear God so sharp! Even my own gaze torments me, but at least I can fix that, living in darkness is not to great a price to pay for even that little bit of relief! My fingernails are sharp, no one comes near enough to cut them, sharp enough to gouge out my eyes, blind me, so my own stare no longer torments me! I cannot see them staring but I know they do, and I can hear, hear them whisper that the insane woman gouged out her own eyes, screaming that she could not bear her own gaze, and they shake their heads, marveling that I could do such a thing, but who would not, would not end even just a small bit of their torment, even if it meant blindness? But blindness doesn't help, I can feel their eyes, can feel even my own eyeless gaze! Dear God, is there no relief? None? Will I live out my life like this, trapped in darkness, always watched and never left alone, screaming my lungs to shreds and my throat to ribbons and then still screaming? What can I do, what can I do, what can I do? They tied my arms, tied them so I can't hurt myself any more, but why would I? I only wanted to take my eyes, only eyes can watch, but even eyes that have been gouged out still watch you, watch me, all the eyes, even painted ones. Eyes are everywhere, even where they are not, even blank walls watch, even trees, even flowers, even blind cats and shredded pictures, even blinded insane women like me who killed a man with her bare hands because she could not stand being watched.

I'm know he's happy now, the old king in the picture, I hear him laughing at me, taunting me in my wretchedness. You thought tearing me to shreds would help, he says, but I still watch you, will always watch you. We will all watch you scream and curse and sob and then you will die as we all died, but even then we will watch you, then and always.

And he speaks truth, painful, horrible, tormenting truth, curse him! Curse them all, all the watchers, all the thrice-cursed watching eyes!