Incorrect Eyes

by Andromeda Ruins

praying for my downfall in that ratty old country parish.

The dreams—no, nightmares—I have been subjected to make no sense otherwise.

Yeah. I am. I am paranoid.

me

I don’t know how to tell her that if this is a test sent by God then I don’t want to believe anymore.

It pains me to know that I am causing so much grief.

Something is wrong.

The Angels are real, and They are watching.

It was the first time they’d been afraid of me, and I pray I’ll never see that look in their eyes again.

remind me that I am never alone.

For me, that’s the one thing I have a hard time looking at: Eyes.

How does one define ‘okay’? Physically, I’m alive. Mentally? I don’t know how to answer that.

Hiding. Hiding and working and sinking further and further into the pits of despair and paranoia.

Why are there Eyes everywhere?

It’s not long before the squelching sounds of slimy Eyes start to encroach on me, glitching feathers floating in front of my eyes.

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a high and lofty throne, and His robe[lit. seam] filled the temple.

Angels, Messengers, Seraphim… they all mean the same Creature.

Just reading the name causes my breath to catch. Tension thickens the air. I know what comes next, an image straight from my nightmares:

each one had six wings: with two he covered his face, with two he covered his fee...

There is a burning needs in my gut to continue.

I can’t hear their chants, my ears are filled with Their screaming and wailing. Their shouts beg for atonement and forgiveness.

They have tears of viscous blood streaming down Their faces as They grovel before His throne, screaming and begging for His warmth.

Seraphim and Cherubim just behind Them, blocking the pathetic Angels in, forcing Them to submit to His holy gaze. Their screams harmonize in the worst ways, ringing through my mind and spilling through my ears. The mind-numbing pain They cause is only worsened as my eyes are drawn further down the page.

Woe is me for I am ruined [must be silent] because I am a man of unclean lips and live among a people of unclean lips, and because my eyes...

am unclean, just like he was. I live among people with unclean Eyes, just as he with lips. He—I—we are RUINED.

Now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed and your sin is atoned for. Then I scream.

I’m so fucking exhausted. I’m so tired of the constant anxiety and all-consuming paranoia.

me too friend

My breath catches in my throat as those strings start to form crude Eyes, blinking at me as they mock my inability to focus.

but the Eyes are still there.

I need to leave but I Can’t. Look. Away.

The room is cooking me alive and the Eyes are still getting closer.

My love would know what to do, how to deal with whatever sick game my mind is playing on me.

There are Eyes out here, too, though I pretend not to notice them. These ones aren’t made out of words. They look real.

Disembodied Eyes, plucked straight out of… I don’t want to know.

“just keep walking” to myself.

They roll out of Their crevices, leaving wet trails in Their path. I nervously swallow as I listen to the sounds of the Eyes moving, squelching obscenely as They bump into one another and squeeze between the books.

The sound makes my stomach turn.

Pretend not to notice when I feel something fill the space of the aisle.

need out. How long is this aisle? I need to leave. How long have I been walking? Why haven’t I reached the door? Why are the walls getting closer?

The walls are getting closer, bringing the Eyes closer to me, aren’t They?

I need out. I need out, out, out, out, OUT.

Water droplets stain the concrete below me as I cry. My head bows until my forehead kisses the ground and I let it all out.

My arms are splayed out, the palms of my hands face the heavens above as I try and collect myself.

wish I could talk to them, wish I could spill my guts to the balls of gas that illuminate the sky every night. They would listen. They would understand.

Maybe one day I will join them, leave my mortal vessel behind and travel the heavens.

Bloody and raw. Great. There are black spots of debris mixed in with the oozing gunk that once was the heel of my palm.

the Eyes are hiding in those spaces—

squelching as They burst, spraying Their holy viscera on the bystanders.

but when I look up there’s something wrong. Their eyes are wrong, they’re wrong.

Those are not human eyes.

Those things squint as they flinch away from me. My own scream seems distant to my ears, but I take the opening it’s given me and I run. I can feel the eyes—incorrect,