Eyes. There are eyes plastered to every wall. My hammer cannot berate them, my paint cannot make them blink, my hands cannot make them falter. A glistening ocean blue and piercing to the soul. When I ask them what they want, they simply stare a little bit harder, colder. The flutter of an eyelash, the twitch of a nerve, the red veins which stretch across the sclera; they are real, ever-present.

Once I've readied myself for bed, I feel a familiar, nauseating horror as my wallpaper contorts and folds in on itself. My pink stripes fade to a midnight black and shift as a pupil emerges. It is tonight when I cannot bear their suffocating gaze any longer and I rampage onto the cold sidewalk. I stop short by the last house on the street. An elderly woman peaks her graying hair from the door frame, looking for sound. When she spots me, our eyes meet, and I instantly fall to my knees. Her eyes are The Eyes. It's not long before I'm scratching at the pavement, clawing at my skin, barking at her with rage. She descends back into the confines of her home in fear. I run, on all fours, crashing into her front door. 

“Creep!” I growl.  

My fingernails bleed and her door grows frail with the carvings of my anger. Yet there is no beg to stop. My knuckles punch an opening in the door, large enough for me to snake my fingers through and grab onto the latches holding it in place. Ripping them from their hinges, the door falls backwards, slamming into her floor. The house is devoid of everything: furniture, light, and life. There is one room at the end of a long corridor that is illuminated by the faint glow of a candle. The room is barricaded with yellow tape, like a murder scene, and a trail of blood follows me. I wonder if it is my own. The old woman ebbs tiredly in a rocking chair. I feel rage as I watch her aim a spyglass toward my house.

“Spy,” I seethe. 

She folds the device up, turning back to me, “You know why I watch you.”

Her eyes meet mine, and suddenly an aching pain arises in my chest, and I fall to my knees. She stands, walking up to me and running her finger along the trail of blood.

“This is not yours,” she whispers.

I cry out, begging her to stop. Her gaze burns through me like the sun and strips me of every truth. She bends down to face me and pulls the collar of her shirt down to reveal bruises and wounds. Finally she grabs my face and forces me to meet her gaze. There I see it, the eyes on my wall, the eyes in my heart, the eyes I stared at as I ended a life. 

She smiles as her presence begins to fade, “But this is your murder.”