The Eyes He Took

Black and darkness are two completely unique experiences.

Before, when I would close my eyes, sure, it was the color black, but it didn’t envelop me in its ever-stretching tentacles.

Now, when I “open” my eyes, when I “close” my eyes, it’s all the same. A lack of light. The complete and utter absence. And that is the true difference—darkness.

There are little things I miss, which I didn’t think I would. The red, orange, and white bouncing on the inside of my eyelids when my mother would drive down a country road. I would be in the passenger seat, eyes closed to the world.

“Wow. Your eyes…crystal blue,” a beautiful girl would whisper as she leaned in to press her lips against mine.

Leaves turning colors. How they go from green to orange to brown, then, they slowly fall, and leave a skeleton in their wake.

The funny thing is, when my eyes were taken, it was the most beautiful day outside. I decided to sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and admire the crisp fall weather. I had my journal in one hand and my steaming mug in the other, as I jotted down ideas for a short story.

I took advantage of one more look at the swaying branches in the distance, then closed my eyes to feel the sun’s warmth against my skin. Now, that is all I feel.

The moments after are a blur. A knot on the side of my head. The feeling of cold metal on my back. A masked man hovering just out of sight. I could feel my skin being peeled back against my forehead.

Then, I entered into my new world.

From what I could feel, I was placed back at my home. It was familiar. The chips in the wood on the desk. My fingers traced the spines of books I would once get lost in.

The smell. My smell.

I began to cry, or, whatever someone would call it now, because no tears fell from the gaping holes.

That was two years ago.

Now, every day is a long, gray hum. Every sound sharp, every silence louder. I’ve learned to live by rhythm—counting footsteps, tracing air currents, measuring distance by scent. The world rearranges itself in my mind, though I can’t trust what it builds.

---

Halloween night.

Erick comes by every year. He brings candy I don’t eat and stories I pretend to enjoy. I think it’s pity. Maybe guilt. He was the one who found me—blind, broken, and whispering about a man in a mask no one else ever saw.

Tonight, he brings his daughter.

Her shoes scrape lightly against the porch steps, stopping halfway.

“Daddy says you used to be a writer,” she says, her voice small, curious.

“I still am,” I tell her. “I just write in the dark now.”

She giggles. It’s a sound so bright it hurts. “Daddy says you had blue eyes. Like the sky.”

I smile faintly. “That’s right.”

Another pause. Then, softer—

“Mine are blue too.”

The room tilts. My hands tremble. “Oh yeah?”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “He told me to tell you that. The man in the mask.”

My blood goes cold. “What did you say?”

She laughs again. “He said you shouldn’t be sad. He said your eyes are safe.”

I try to stand, but the room pulses around me, full of invisible motion. Erick says something—his voice distant, distorted. A hand grips my shoulder. Heavy. Cold.

“Relax,” he murmurs. But it doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like the voice that used to live behind the mask.

“Erick?” I whisper.

No answer. Just breathing. Three people. Maybe four.

Somewhere near the window, the little girl hums. The same melody I used to whistle while writing—something no one else should know.

My pulse stutters. I can hear it now: the wind scratching the siding, the creak of boots, the faint clink of metal against glass.

“Do you remember,” she says softly, “how it felt when the light went away?”

The sound of the room drains out, pulled into a deep, endless silence. My breath catches. My hands find the edge of the table—cold, wet, familiar.

“Daddy says you used to see ghosts,” she whispers. “Can you see me now?”

I open my mouth, but the air feels thick, metallic. Behind my lids, something flickers—shadows shifting in colorless light. For a split second, I see her. A small face. Blue eyes shining in the dark.

But I can’t tell if it’s memory, madness, or mercy.

And then, she’s gone. The house hums again. Erick calls my name from the doorway, his voice normal, distant. “You okay, man?”

I nod slowly, though I don’t know why. The air still smells like antiseptic. My fingertips trace the table again.

They come away slick.

When I lift my hands toward my face, I feel it—warmth, wet, something running down from the sockets that should be dry.

For the first time in two years… I’m crying.

Outside, a child’s laughter rings through the street.

“Trick or treat.”

And in the black behind my eyes, something opens. Two pinpricks of blue. Watching.