Three months ago, the president was inaugurated. Two months ago, several bomb brigades broke out overseas. One month ago, a figurehead was assassinated in broad daylight. Three weeks ago, the country silently fell into civil war. Two weeks ago, my town announced an emergency shutdown, suspending all business, education, and leisure activities indefinitely. One week ago, my sister vanished, leaving the house despite the warnings, despite my warnings. Last night, there was a knock on my door.

I was brushing my teeth sluggishly, letting the drools of foamy toothpaste and saliva drip down the back of my throat, when the sound erupted into the empty quiet; the door rumbled in its frame violently. I stood, staring at it until my chin became sticky and dry with the dried white of the foam. The door banged again, and I swallowed it down, in a slimy gulp, throat constricting against the unpleasant texture. I dropped my toothpaste in the sink and ran towards the door. I vaguely anticipated the sudden manifestation of my sister on the other side; I didn’t hesitate.

My sister was not standing outside. No one was. My eyes trailed down to a large mound settled on my concrete porch. The darkness engulfed the lights from my house, suckling the saturation from the outside world. I looked around in the dark abyss of the midnight light and found no signs of the living save the chirping of grasshoppers, crickets, and frogs. I squatted down to take a closer look, legs shakingly weak and my spine held taunt as if about to snap and send me bending into myself. It looked like mushed spaghetti—hues of reds in strands and minced bits like ground beef. There were spherical objects that made up structure of the pile. White, dull moist-looking meatballs stacked on top of one another like a pyramid. When I noticed a faded pupil staring back at my lively ones, I fell, landed on my tailbone, and propelled my body backwards with my feet; the friction caused my soles to burn.

I started dumbly, my limbs locked. The pile of fresh and very much bloody eyeballs all started back at me. Despite its dimness, the pupils were big and blown out, my minute reflections replicated several dozen times. I watched myself leaping forward and slamming the door shut. The paintings on the wall rattled underneath the force of the impact, my eyes chased the sounds, bracing for an attack from the shadows that never came.

I shuffled back until the solid comfort of the wall eased the tension curled between my vertebrae. I was pinned to that wall—comfort subsiding and muscles ached under the effort of squeezing my body, forcing it down until I made myself invisible and non-existing. My breaths came in short and suffocating; my lungs moving like an accelerated heartbeat yet constrained, unable to fully expel the filth, to take in the stench of wet iron and dying cells. Part of me was distressingly curious to breathe in the scent and guess at its decomposition. It couldn’t be real. The scent of iron was too strong, like nursing a rusty screw. 

I stood there, plastered against the wall like a permanent fixture, a blemish in the paint no one bothered to cover up. Squished organs and tissues—I could not take my eyes off of the front door. I felt those dozens of eyeballs staring back at be through the wood. A haze fell over me and I found myself bombarded with memories between scrolling through social media, of messages sent between friends and my sister, of my online perception, and I can’t shake off the dozens of red dots aiming for my head. This was not the random violence of strangers, this was personal. If it was the work of another—my guts screamed at me that it was.

My sister has always been more vocal than myself. She was free-expression incarnate. There was no deception nor disingenuity in her words, no attempt to hide away the awful and wild thoughts we are told opt to stay in the back of our mind. She didn’t have the storage space, I guess, or maybe she too kept the most violent ones in check. I can’t imagine anything more vicious than her voice. Every time she spoke, others brace.

Until she said too much.

And I probably did too.

My own eyeballs strained and squirmed in their eye sockets, the thought of them joining the pile before me was too viscerally portrayed in my imagination that I squinted to keep them still and properly locked in place. I sneaked a glance at my right into my kitchen entrance, craning my neck to see the open curtains of the window. It swallowed the dim light of the house, another hole in existence; I couldn’t see anything. The swell of blood washed over my head, its crashing waves in my ears, dangerously obstructed my hearing.

I saw it there across the hallway, through the kitchen, at the inconspicuous little window, something slammed against the glass. I had ducked down before quickly springing back up, to catch what it was. An eyeball was smudged against the pane, wiping across, leaving a trail of glossy, translucent excretion tainted crimson-black. I couldn’t see anything behind its movements—no strings nor thing orchestrated its motions. It was a single floating organ disfiguring itself against the window’s surface. I stood stunned because what else am I meant to do? I am stuck between the open, vulnerable space and the solid, enclosed wall that grinded at my tailbone.

Spatch

 spatch

spatch

 over and over until the only view from the window was hundreds of eyeballs squelched and wriggled against each other, swapping bodily fluid and eroding their shapes. Pupils of mostly brown but some green, blue, and gray, gawked at me as my I slipped down, shrunken, the moisture sapped out of my flesh, rendered dry and wrinkle-fested; my skin folded itself several times, like origami. The mass quivered, its eyes swirled and slid, rubbing the sclera raw.

Tipsy, I thought I was, and I tried to rack my memory if I had been drinking tonight as was most nights since my sister disappeared or perhaps, I took cough syrup, her pills, LSD, anything. But damn if I could think. I looked at the steaming pile of brownish muck staining my hands on the floor and my scrapped throat shallowed the lingering vile; I had vomited, the puddle expanded and touched my socked feet, seeping into the cotton, hot and coarse. I don’t remember what I was doing the night before, I couldn’t focus on anything but the dripping stomach acid on my lips, my soiled feet, my relentless shaking—how I must look, in their oppressive gaze. My face flushed, irrational shame and embarrassment for looking like a toddler, covered in his own vomit.

That was enough for my legs to function again. I ran down the left hallway, into the open door of my bedroom. I slammed it shut and locked it. My forehead rasped against the rough wood as I caught my breath. It was a watery inhale, like a chest-ful gurgle. After a few moments spent composing myself, I had sprung into searching for my phone lost between the folds of my sheets. I found its warmth beneath my palms and ripped it off its confinement. I fiddled with it, moving it from hand to hand, my nerves exploded.

I unlocked the screen and the hair on my neck lifted up and screamed. My wallpaper, that had once had me and my sister in a shoulder hug, instead showed a beading eyeball staring impartially back at me. I threw the thing across the room where it landed face up, the pupil seemingly followed my shuffling onto my bed. I covered myself with my sheets, ensuring no exposure remained. I had tears streaming down cool, sticking my cheeks to the polyester. I don’t know when my mind decided mercy; I passed out, cowering under the blankets.

---

It’s been one week since the eyes appeared, and they haven’t left. The curtains are shut closed, electronic cameras taped over, smart devices unplugged. The router is disconnected while I sleep and only plugged back in when absolutely necessary. Every possible entrance in my home has been covered with plastic wrap and aluminum, although, I suspect I missed some gaps. I settled into a discomforting routine.

I shower in the morning now, never at night. I prepare my clothes and drag myself to the bathroom. I covered the mirror with magazines, old school assignments, and mildew books—an art craft that wanes as the humidity from my showers entice the mold to eat away at the covering. It’s an easy fix; I add more. I slip my clothes off, keeping my boxers firmly on my waist. I step into the shower and take the plastic wrap off the faucet, the drainage, and finally, the showerhead. There, in the dark holes of the piping, eyes roll into view, staring at my (nearly) naked physique. I keep up our staring game as I turn on the faucet and watch the single eye at my showerhead cry water onto my face. The water is mostly clear, but the slight red hue is the hardest to ignore. I strain to glare back while washing off the oil and grease from my pale skin. I am grateful I don’t have noses in this audience; this is the second shower I had in seven days.

After my shower, I cover the openings again with the extra plastic wrap I keep in the medicine cabinet. I dress hastily, almost slipping on the wet tile floor. I go out and to the kitchen and prepare breakfast: cereal and milk. I eat slowly, my posture painfully straight and perfect. Every action and inaction I do within the house under constant, constrictive scrutiny. My body no longer belongs to me. I am never alone.

They have surrounded the house. I opened the front door the next day after I passed out and witnessed the biggest mound of eyes I had seen completely blocking the entire entrance, a blockade that can perceive your motions and never blinks. For every one eyeball that averts its gaze, ten others join in ogling. There is nothing to be done. If I called the police or some other line for help, the eyes would surely see it, and I don’t want to know the ramifications if I were to do something unsavory to the thousands of freakish sentient organs. Or I’m just a coward.

So, I sit carefully and gently. Daring no thoughts to show on my face, avoiding touching myself and anything else for that matter. I become lifeless—being nothing to scrutinize. All I have is silence and judgement.