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For the first time, I notice that his eyes are blue: a pale, icy blue that reminds me of the Niagara Falls, where my father took us on vacation six years ago. I don’t know why I didn’t notice them before.
The eye on the plate looked exactly like George’s eyes. Blue. A blazing, luminous blue.
Fate can bring you together, but it can just as easily tear you apart.
Over the next month, I sabotaged everything I could.
What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?
I’m certain that blue eyes would taste amazing, much better than brown ones. Especially George’s eyes.
I want the crunch of cartilage in my mouth. I want the saltiness of blood on my tongue.
As soon as his back is turned, I envision myself driving a knife into his neck.
It’s George. His eyes are so beautiful. But when he grins at me, his mouth is an empty hole, toothless and rotting.
I imagine slipping it between socket and flesh. I point the knife at George’s stomach, his neck. I’ve never gotten this far in any of my dreams,
The truth is that men like George seldom notice things unless they are directly involved in them. Men like him are stupid and oblivious, convinced of their own self-importance.
Crawl, you pathetic cockroach. Crawl.
They surround me, watching. They recognize me. They know what I want, and they’re begging for me to take them.
His eyes are brown like rot, hideous and unappetizing.
Yeah, sorry, I ate a homeless guy’s eyeball last night, and I’m really struggling with it, so. . . .
They know what I’ve done. They know. Their skin stretches and grows; holes begin appearing all over their bodies, and in each hole an eye emerges, bright blue and staring. I cover my face with my hands and run.
But he won’t have time. I’ve already started screaming.
