You're watching me. I don't like when you stare at me, stop doing that. It's creepy. Those haunting, accusing eyes are boring into mine, and I can't tear my gaze away. Hypnotized, I peer closer, convinced there's still some spark of life in them. I'm still afraid you're going to wake up and come after me for revenge, maybe try to take my life to make up for your own.

Really, stop. I understand it might be difficult, but please, close those ashen eyelids. Take your blame elsewhere. I shudder slightly but still can't pull my eyes away. Something must be done about this, I think, but how to do it? More importantly, how to be sure it'll hold for good so you'll never open your eyes again? Not once more do I want to see you cast your stare my way, never want you to lock your eyes on mine.

I search frantically through drawers and cupboards, seeking something to seal those horrible eyes shut. Tape? No, no good, it won't hold forever. It'll come off, and then that searching look will haunt me again, hunt me down and live inside my dreams. I can't have that. Glue, no, too sticky, I don't like the kinds of things that stick to you and stay there. It hits me that that could be a strange metaphor for your eyes; they grab you and stick to you for good. Disgust crosses my face briefly, and I can't help sneaking a glance at you. You're still there, despite my fears, not moving.

Ah, here's something. I rush to your side, threading the needle as I go. You won't be able to throw your accusing stares at me any longer now. Cautiously, as quickly as I dare, I begin the stitching. I have to be careful not to catch your eye, only the delicate eyelid. Little x-shaped sutures start to form on your face, and a smile forms on mine. It almost looks beautiful. The black-thread seams, I mean.

I realize your jaws are still parted in the midst of denouncing me a murderer. Shuddering again, I re-thread the needle and thrust it through your bloodstained lips. A pull, another thrust, and the seam begins to take shape. The now-sticky gore coating your lips doesn't bother me. In fact, the scent of it makes me smile. The sweet smell of death.

Lips complete, I break the thread and tie a knot. Something stirs inside me, compelling me to continue, so I look for more to do. Your slit wrists call to me, and soon they too are darned with little black stitches.

Sitting back, I inhale sharply. That smell, like that of a rare flower to me, it drifts about the room and surrounds me. So beautiful. I stand up, catching a glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror hanging on the dirty wall. A bestial grin twists its way across my face, blood staining my hands. It's sick, depraved; I know I should be disgusted, but instead I find my smile widening at the sight.

My gaze turns to you, lying there all full of black stitches. It's beautiful in a macabre way. Almost like a piece of art.

"Art."