His Eyes Were Not His Own--part 2

                                                                                            *****

Castle jolted upright from the bed. Sweat soaked his clothes, and his heart was beating like a caged animal. He put his hands to his face and felt his eyes. They did not seem to be any different. It felt as though the same cloudy sky eyes stared out of his skull.

            Running to the miniscule bathroom, Castle recited every prayer he knew. He would give anything so long as that nightmare was not true. The detail of it all, and how he was so aware of what was going on, chilled him, made him doubt that he was actually asleep. He had never before experienced desolation so complete, how could he have possibly dreamt it?

            Relief flooded through him as Castle beheld his own two eyes in the mirror. Two, normal, slightly wide spaced eyes that were most definitely his own. He laughed. The idea that such an absurd dream, no matter how vivid, could be mistaken as reality struck him as silly. His grandfather would tell ghost stories twice as believable when Castle was small enough to be balanced on a storyteller’s knee.

            Castle washed himself in the sink, waking into the real world once again. His watch told him it was half past five. Perhaps he would venture out to the diner down the street. He reconsidered; his appetite had not recovered from his fright. Just a stroll then, to set his mind right. He looked up.

            Castle screamed.

            Out of the corner of his eye, the bathroom mirror had been visible. The smudged surface reflected into his bedroom. He could see the contorted sheets, the iron bedframe, the book lying at the foot of the mattress, and, for the length of one hurried heartbeat, the creature from his dream.

            The thing disappeared almost before Castle’s mind could process it, but he knew it had been there. There. In his apartment. Standing over his bed. Grotesque head nearly touching the ceiling, arms reaching down to finger the floor, faded peach skin stretched over a skeletal frame that no God blessed.

And the eyes. They had been there, staring into him. Not at his back, but into the mirror at just the right angle to match his thoughtless gaze. Castle stood motionless, eyes glued the mirror. Would it come back? Did he scare it off? Of course not, why would that thing be afraid of him? After all, it had…

            No, he must not think of that. Not now.

Wheeling around to face into the room, Castle prepared himself to see the thing again. It was not there. Not by the bed, not by the door, not by the desk. Nowhere. He advanced slowly, cautiously, raising his fists as though that would do anything. His heart leapt to his throat and plummeted back down to his chest more times a second than Castle could count. His breath he kept low, paranoid of every sound.

            Amidst his panic, it struck him as odd that the book was resting on the bed, much like he had been not too long before. He distinctly remembered throwing it to the floor. Had he picked it up? He could not remember.

He picked it up now, finding comfort in its solid weight and musty smell. Seemingly on its own accord, his hand opened the book to the near middle. There was nothing written on one page, but on the next there were two lines. They read themselves out to Castle, who looked upon the script he could not read. Seven words rang out in his mind:

                                                                                       They are watching.

                                                                                 They are always watching.

            The words thudded with his heartbeat, beating into Castle’s brain. He threw the book to the ground and screamed. He could all but feel the idea lodged in his mind, a parasite feasting on the fear that tore at him. The fear gripped his gut and made his skin itch. The need to move surged within him, and those seven words repeated themselves over and over again. He flailed about the room, groping for the door. Out the door and threw the living room, stumbling and crying, but never stopping. He had to get away, far away.

             A quiet corner of his mind observed the feeling of going mad. It was less of a pressing sensation than it was drainage of all reason; in the void simple truths took residence. He must run. He must flee. They are watching. They are always watching.

             He burst out of his building like a gunshot. Memories of the dream slammed back into his consciousness as the cobblestone streets and shop windows greeted him. The people walking about. A lady stopped and gasped at his sudden appearance. Castle turned to face her. She was dressed colorlessly, her dress and blouse the same shade of tan. Beside her stood a man who fancied the color green, who pulled the tan lady away from Castle.

            Castle opened his mouth to tell them that he meant no harm. That he just had to get away, far away. But all that came out was, “Watching. They’re always watching. Watching. Oh God they’re always watching.”

            He clasped his hands over his mouth, trying in vain to stem the flow of verbiage pouring out. He stuffed his hands into his mouth, biting down on them hard enough to draw blood, but still the words came. Muffled, bloodied, and relentless, they came.

            He scrambled away from the couple, fist in mouth: a crouching and whimpering wreck. People stepped off the sidewalk to avoid his path, some staring, some ducking their heads and quickening their pace.

            And they were watching. Castle could hear them; hear the beat of their eyes. They beat like the desert sun and pierced like the artic night. His knees jellied and his face met the sidewalk. The impact snapped his wrist, and Castle felt pain scream through his arm and in his mouth.

            No, that was not right. The scream was not in his mouth, it was coming out of it. The eyes pounded his ears, but even still, he could feel his throat ripping. He ran blind, tumbling down the sidewalk until the pounding softened. He stopped, but his heart continued to race. His paranoid gaze swept his surroundings, but he saw none of the creatures. He was in a different part of the city altogether. Old wooden storefronts had replaced the modern brick buildings, and hardly anyone milled about. Castle allowed himself to relax. He held his right wrist, throbbing, against his chest.

            Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Nothing’s there.

            They are watching. They are always watching.

            Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Ignore the truth.

            “Hey, get a move on.”

            Castle jumped at the man’s voice. He turned to face the stout speaker behind him. He was old, clearly, with receding grey hair and a thick mustache of the same iron shade. Brandishing a broom and apron, he stood on the threshold of a barbershop like an impatient statue. But when Castle faced him, the old man cried out. The broom clattered to the ground and the man began reciting a prayer. All Castle noticed, though, was his face. The man’s composure had been hit with a freight train as he visibly struggled to control himself.

            The eyes returned, crashing like the briny ocean against Castle’s mind. Different this time. The feeling squeezed him from the outside and welled up in the inside until Castle wanted nothing more than to die. Die and hide from their terrible sight.

            And then he knew. Castle did not feel any change, but he knew just as surely as he knew his own name. His eyes were not his own.

            He ignored his reflection in the barbershop’s window and instead dashed in, knocking aside the stammering man. No one was inside, just an empty chair and a cluttered counter. A counter cluttered with shampoos, brushes, scissors, and, Castle saw, razors.

            He grabbed a razor and plunged it into his right eye. He screamed anew, in pain and in triumph. They might have his mind but they would never have his body. Hot slime poured down his face, vitreous liquid seeping into his mouth and making him gag. When he took the razor out Castle saw that it was covered in a thick white liquid and a splatter of blood.

            It was the last thing Castle ever saw. He stabbed his left eye, twisting the razor right to left, right to left, to be utterly sure. A shuttering moan escaped him then, crawling out amidst the exploding pain. Then the agony consumed his mind, and Castle went happily. He fell, bleeding, onto the hard floor. The razor remained lodged in his eye, and his face was painted in flowing pink.

            Castle laughed. He no longer cared if they watched. They had taken his eyes, but he took them back. And that was all that mattered.