When he first arrived, he didn’t see me at all. He sensed my presence, like a snake that coils its way into a dream and lies there in wait. But then I’d felt his hard, physical gaze cut into me, showing me my unfamiliar self, that other part of me, over there, on the other side of the world. I wanted more of it. I wanted to live through his ink, to bathe in it. I wanted to be the only one he saw. And all he could say was he liked the way I saw things. That I had a good eye. Those were his words. A cold reality, devoid of emotion. He needed me to help him see. I didn’t want to be his eyes on my
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