His Eyes
1. Speed of Pain
There are shady character’s among the carnivals, with their dark eyes hidden behind a cloud of smoke but their vision as sharp as a hawk. Waiting, breathing the time, for me, for you, for any little hopeless girl, boy. Any child. They want them, and bad.
But he, he seemed different, at the time when I was twelve, and he seemed only seventeen years old. However he’s timeless, ageless, and as I grew older I never saw him grow with me. I was use to it in a matter of years, two I think, it took me to realize that these people working this joyful little carnival, were far beyond human.
These beings wore masks to hide the scars, make up to shield what couldn’t be protected from curious eyes. The Uglies, a group of three once talented, beautiful pin-up girls were the ones with the beautiful, elaborate masquerade masks that would reach a foot above their heads with spiraling designs or paper Mache fire, sometimes even icy crystals from the cold world outside their purple silk tent.
His eyes use to be blue, the prettiest I’ve ever seen and I would, without shame, loose myself in the swirl of monotone indigo. Now over, they’ve gone bad, very bad. A selfish green that pierces through the soul of those who locks eye contact with him. I’ve felt it before, the fear that swells inside me like my blood is bowling. I avoid his eyes at all time.
The air was stale with the thick taste of iron and the sand kicked up by the bustling feet as I watched them, the workers with hunched backs and other grotesque disabilities, rebuild the rides and pitch the tents. The stands with their blinking lights against the chipping red paint, the millions of stuffed animals for prizes. The games.
The faces of the workers were hidden as well, behind ski masks to hide what I did not know. I could see them twisted up in pain, as the work shortened their lives, weakened their bones, sent the sun to peal away their flesh.
I stepped into a tent pitched just for storage, for the time being anyway, with broken, repairable parts of the rides, the floats lined up one by one beside a dark blue curtain that moved. I peered over the side of the curtain, watching over the Uglies, and other acts pull on their costumes, make up their faces. Then I saw him. And he saw me.
With only a moments time he was beside me, his pale hand held out to grasp my own as I clambered off the ladder that supported my curiosity.
“Hello, darling.” He cooed, bringing my small frame into his body, hugging my close. He was only but a few inches taller then me, his body built well. He wasn’t scarred like the others, more beautiful, more preserved. Older. Dead. I could feel the coldness of his skin seep through the black sweater I dressed myself in. Even his legs were chilling my own through my thick dark jeans.
I shouldn’t be feeling so mushy every time he pulls me into his arms, but over the years I’ve felt a sort of unconditional attraction, something that started at the beginning of puberty. His lip was pierced on the right side, and was fatal to me, I’ve always wanted to bite it.
He knows this. He knows everything about me.
**
There are nights where, when the carnival season has finally ended with a good bang, or a bad bang, that he’s always very sad. I’ve seen him cry with his face redder then a lobster, despite his current condition. (death?) No body knows this but me, because I’m always there, trapped in four walls of furniture, while, between the gaps I can see him huddling over himself and a shiny razor.
It wasn’t until yesterday night that I finally understood things, that my eyes widened. Of course, yesterday was my fifteenth birthday, and the naivety of being fourteen years young was rather a blindfold. But I saw him, once again, huddled after he had caged me in a well built room, newly well built just four days old. Through a hinged doorway, wide as a key hole that seemed completely irrelevant, I saw him there.
I wanted to help him. I screamed out for him to unlock the door, to let me clear his wounds from the inside out. His eyes were blood shot, the green even brighter against the red, like Christmas. He’d stare at me like I was crazy, stupid, naive. I was…I didn’t know what was going on besides that he was hurting and he really shouldn’t be doing that.
Sadly enough my stomach was growling along with my screams, I hadn’t been fed in days. Money was low, and he had to stay hidden in fear that the Big Guns would come and take me away from him. In the mirror to my right, I could see myself hunched over. Staring at my stomach. I see my ribs. That’s not okay.
“Please…” I whispered through the key hole door, “I can help you…”
But his eyes continued to red, the green getting brighter. I saw anger in his face that quickly replaced the hurting. At least he wasn’t hurting anymore. He stood from the puddle of blood beneath him, and I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t dead yet. But his current predicament told me that he was already dead, seemingly alive as well…It only depends.
Soon I saw his lips through the key whole, his breathing warming my eyes, making them water.
“I can’t let you out…the Big Guns are watching us, Darling.” I didn’t understand what he meant, surely the Big Guns couldn’t be watching, for we were in the middle of no where. The curtains had been drawn over the single large window in the room he stood in…there was only candle light for me.
I always wanted to ask him what made me so special to him. Why did he keep me locked up? Why did he make sure I was always there beside him? Why did the Big Guns want me? What was I to them? What was I to him?
But he was clever, and never dared answer my question. I was naive. I was young. But yesterday was my fifteenth birthday. And I understand everything now. Everything.
But he, he seemed different, at the time when I was twelve, and he seemed only seventeen years old. However he’s timeless, ageless, and as I grew older I never saw him grow with me. I was use to it in a matter of years, two I think, it took me to realize that these people working this joyful little carnival, were far beyond human.
These beings wore masks to hide the scars, make up to shield what couldn’t be protected from curious eyes. The Uglies, a group of three once talented, beautiful pin-up girls were the ones with the beautiful, elaborate masquerade masks that would reach a foot above their heads with spiraling designs or paper Mache fire, sometimes even icy crystals from the cold world outside their purple silk tent.
His eyes use to be blue, the prettiest I’ve ever seen and I would, without shame, loose myself in the swirl of monotone indigo. Now over, they’ve gone bad, very bad. A selfish green that pierces through the soul of those who locks eye contact with him. I’ve felt it before, the fear that swells inside me like my blood is bowling. I avoid his eyes at all time.
The air was stale with the thick taste of iron and the sand kicked up by the bustling feet as I watched them, the workers with hunched backs and other grotesque disabilities, rebuild the rides and pitch the tents. The stands with their blinking lights against the chipping red paint, the millions of stuffed animals for prizes. The games.
The faces of the workers were hidden as well, behind ski masks to hide what I did not know. I could see them twisted up in pain, as the work shortened their lives, weakened their bones, sent the sun to peal away their flesh.
I stepped into a tent pitched just for storage, for the time being anyway, with broken, repairable parts of the rides, the floats lined up one by one beside a dark blue curtain that moved. I peered over the side of the curtain, watching over the Uglies, and other acts pull on their costumes, make up their faces. Then I saw him. And he saw me.
With only a moments time he was beside me, his pale hand held out to grasp my own as I clambered off the ladder that supported my curiosity.
“Hello, darling.” He cooed, bringing my small frame into his body, hugging my close. He was only but a few inches taller then me, his body built well. He wasn’t scarred like the others, more beautiful, more preserved. Older. Dead. I could feel the coldness of his skin seep through the black sweater I dressed myself in. Even his legs were chilling my own through my thick dark jeans.
I shouldn’t be feeling so mushy every time he pulls me into his arms, but over the years I’ve felt a sort of unconditional attraction, something that started at the beginning of puberty. His lip was pierced on the right side, and was fatal to me, I’ve always wanted to bite it.
He knows this. He knows everything about me.
**
There are nights where, when the carnival season has finally ended with a good bang, or a bad bang, that he’s always very sad. I’ve seen him cry with his face redder then a lobster, despite his current condition. (death?) No body knows this but me, because I’m always there, trapped in four walls of furniture, while, between the gaps I can see him huddling over himself and a shiny razor.
It wasn’t until yesterday night that I finally understood things, that my eyes widened. Of course, yesterday was my fifteenth birthday, and the naivety of being fourteen years young was rather a blindfold. But I saw him, once again, huddled after he had caged me in a well built room, newly well built just four days old. Through a hinged doorway, wide as a key hole that seemed completely irrelevant, I saw him there.
I wanted to help him. I screamed out for him to unlock the door, to let me clear his wounds from the inside out. His eyes were blood shot, the green even brighter against the red, like Christmas. He’d stare at me like I was crazy, stupid, naive. I was…I didn’t know what was going on besides that he was hurting and he really shouldn’t be doing that.
Sadly enough my stomach was growling along with my screams, I hadn’t been fed in days. Money was low, and he had to stay hidden in fear that the Big Guns would come and take me away from him. In the mirror to my right, I could see myself hunched over. Staring at my stomach. I see my ribs. That’s not okay.
“Please…” I whispered through the key hole door, “I can help you…”
But his eyes continued to red, the green getting brighter. I saw anger in his face that quickly replaced the hurting. At least he wasn’t hurting anymore. He stood from the puddle of blood beneath him, and I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t dead yet. But his current predicament told me that he was already dead, seemingly alive as well…It only depends.
Soon I saw his lips through the key whole, his breathing warming my eyes, making them water.
“I can’t let you out…the Big Guns are watching us, Darling.” I didn’t understand what he meant, surely the Big Guns couldn’t be watching, for we were in the middle of no where. The curtains had been drawn over the single large window in the room he stood in…there was only candle light for me.
I always wanted to ask him what made me so special to him. Why did he keep me locked up? Why did he make sure I was always there beside him? Why did the Big Guns want me? What was I to them? What was I to him?
But he was clever, and never dared answer my question. I was naive. I was young. But yesterday was my fifteenth birthday. And I understand everything now. Everything.