Jeremiah's Eyes, a Supernatural story

Another Highgate story, this story told for one particularly strange resident which lives there.

In every school, it’s customary to find children who are specially found out and picked upon cruelly, whether by physical force or psychological torture. And always, the inevitable ending would be the child dragging their shoed feet home, head downwards in quiet contemplation and somehow, a few new purplish bruises blossoming on their skinny arms or legs. In the town of Highgate, in the little school whose paint was flaking off the gates, Jeremiah Kostriers was one of those specially singled out children.

Something foul would undoubtedly appear under his desk, his locker will be dented at all days and weeks, and even the kindly old janitor grew tired of replacing the locks, often ducking into little dark places to hide when he saw Jeremiah's sad, tear-stained face twisting about, looking for him to repair his locker. An arm will jostle pass him, pinching him surreptitiously as it went pass, legs will stretch out of their own accord under desks to trip him up and teachers looked on coldly, for deep in their secret, petty shrivelled hearts, they hated Jeremiah Kostriers.

Jeremiah wasn't an ugly boy; in fact, he was as far from ugly as it could possibly be. He was, for want of a better word, beautiful. He was not handsome in the shockingly masculine manner, or beautiful in the traditional girlish sense. No, he was... Beautiful. There was just that intangible something that hung to Jeremiah's lean shoulders. He was a mixture of both man and woman, the magnificent cheekbones and full red lips standing out in their own manner, but not as much as those eyes. Now that was his real beauty.

Those eyes, people growled and hissed and mumbled under their breath, were wholly inhuman.

Inhuman, yes. That would be among one of the manners used to describe the boy's eyes. There were people who claimed they saw it burn witch-green on a dark night or turn ice-blue in the hot summer afternoons, or even, that it glinted amethyst one magnificent Sunday, when the sun's rays hit his eyes. But what everybody agrees on is that Jeremiah's eyes were grey. Not a normal grey, you understand. It was... an eternity. It was as if stars glowed and died in that grey gaze of his, as if seeds sprouted new leafs, flung out branches and withered in that single instant, as if a newborn baby's cry was trapped in those intangible eyes.

Those eyes, when they looked at people, made people feel as if their innermost secrets were drawn effortlessly by a clinical, yet warm, hand which knew exactly where their little, huge, cruel, good secrets were hidden. Be it lost in a self-made murky mind marsh, or it buried within the heart's soil, the gentle hand would always pull open the layers and reach down, probing gently before finding the secret and drawing it out, as if it was afraid of hurting the person. Those eyes had seen nothing and everything. They had seen the moment a planet died, they had seen the infinity of a tree growing.

That's one of the usual reasons why people hurt other people.

They were scared of people knowing their innermost, most hurtful secrets. Most people, most humans, when they probe deep down, draw out the secret strands that create the soul, stare into the mirror pool, and they look themselves deep into their glassy eyes. And they are scared. They are scared of what they see, they are afraid that people would know how monstrous they are, so they hurl a rock into the mirror pool or hastily rewind the strands deep into their little woollen ball. They certainly do not want anybody drawing out their deepest secrets, plumbing their souls and coming face to face with what they are.

The sad fact that Jeremiah's mother was a young lady who was unfortunately charmed by a certain Yan, who certainly never married her. He was therefore, conceived out of wedlock. The other sad fact was that his mother committed suicide; she had downed a bottle of pills and an enormous bottle of alcohol when he was four. She had left behind a note and a birthday present, as it was Jeremiah's birthday the next week. In it, she had told Jeremiah that she loved him, and that he was always her beloved little pigeon and that she was sorry, so sorry, but Jeremiah darling, Mummy has to go now, so please understand, please?

Jeremiah pretty much knew what he was going to find when he unlocked the door to the sad little room his mother had rented. When he saw the teddy bear perched neatly on top of the book he wanted, and the note placed neatly beside it with a cup of plain milk and a plate of cookies beside it, Jeremiah knew. He had simply gone to the bathroom, stared at his mother, and cried. Then he tried to laugh, while tears continued tumbling down his face. For Mummy has always told him, laugh, darling; when you laugh all bad things will go away. And Jeremiah believed that if he laughed hard enough, Mummy would come back.

He was now nine.

He unlocks the door to the sad little place his mother had formerly rented, and he sets down his bag gently on the floor. Then he turned it over, inspecting it for any signs of damage. He was not surprised; a small hole was cut crudely into the cloth. He returns the bag to its former position. Standing up, he makes his way to the drab little kitchen, which was, surprisingly, kept spotless. He takes out a broom and starts to sweep the floor. Within a few hours, Jeremiah has carefully finished his daily housework. Now he replaces the cloth back into its former position, enters his bedroom and removes a pale blue jacket.

He unlocks the door, slides his feet into the sneakers which were awaiting him, locks it again and shakes his long fringe out of his face. Oh dear. He really should cut it... Maybe next time, he mused. There were not enough funds to be supporting him this month... The Council haven't sent him his money yet, he was eagerly waiting for it. But now, he was going to visit Mr. Grimstone. As he mused over his thoughts, plotting out a grocery list which would last him for two weeks, Jeremiah Kostriers' shoes tap-tapped down the pavements of Highgate, as he made his way to Mr. Grimstone's workplace.

Joseph Grimstone's workplace was the birth womb for many odd and weird stories which meandered their hazy ways down the messy streets of Highgate, one of the most repeated ones was the one about Adelina Woodward. They said that there was a Joseph Grimstone at that time, the great-great-great and who knows how many more greats, grandfather before this century's current Joseph. And he was present at that time, when Adelina Woodward had sprung out and mad her philandering, lying husband honour his promise. Jeremiah knew better.

Mr. Grimstone was perched on the bench out of Highgate’s' graveyard, there had been plans to move the dead and build a new patch of houses, but it had never been fulfilled. It had been brought up a few more times by enterprising men, but it always faded with time, swept carefully under the carpet, with someone arranging the carpet fussily over it and slipping a tiny widow spider under the carpet. Mr. Grimstone was smoking, the smoke blown this way and that by the wind, and his eyes were hooded. For the entire world, Joseph might have been sleeping, but Jeremiah knew he was not.

Jeremiah hopped onto the bench, his slim nine-year old legs stretched out in front of him, as he watched Joseph expressionlessly with those huge grey eyes. Joseph opened his eyelids a crack and commented, in that deep marshy-voice of his, "'S matter, Jeremiah?" So saying, he blew the smoke out through his mouth, and turned the cigarette around in his fingers, the skin underneath the nails stained brown and black with graveyard soil. He looked up at Jeremiah, stony face expressionless too, and returned the cigarette to his mouth.

"You shouldn't smoke. It's chockfull with poisons and chemicals, you'll die. Like Mummy, but she died with pills."

Joseph nodded slowly as he glanced at the boy. "Oh no, I won't. I've still got a long, long way to go, Jeremiah boy." The boy glanced up sharply at him, thin, pointed face shining stark white. It was almost dusk. Then Jeremiah shrugged, and transferred his gaze away, to a row of ants climbing busily up the rubbish bin. He twisted a strand of his dark hair around one skinny finger as he watched Joseph out of the corner of his eyes. "When can we leave?"

A puff of smoke floated up into the air and dissipated slowly. "Soon."

"When?"

"Soon. Soon."

"You've always said that, Mr. Grimstone. Don't you think townspeople find it suspicious that all the Grimstones were men and gravediggers?"

"Well, it's a family trade, I say. To the sharper ones... I would have to a bit more persuasive."

Jeremiah shrugged and twisted his thin hands together uncomfortably. "I was bullied again, today."

"Jeremiah boy, you know that all the personaes you've taken on were all like that."

"But why was I chosen?"

A slow shrug. Hurt in those eyes at the flippancy of the answer. "We-ell, I also don't know specifically why... You just popped out of nowhere... And, well."

"Became one of the faces you see for quite a long time."

Joseph looked down at the creature that was hidden deep in the frail boy's body, and yet... It was so close to the surface. He studied the grey eyes, then uncomfortable, looked away. "Yes. But... Maybe."

"Maybe," echoed the creature in a human boy's body. Then, it blinked. The eyelids fell down across the eyes slowly, stayed there for a few seconds before opening again. This time, it was just eyes. Almost surfacing though. Jeremiah Kostriers smiled, blinked up at Joseph, and murmured, "I think I got to go now, Mr. Grimstone." Mr. Grimstone nodded slowly and pulled out one of those sweets that children loved so much, and which Jeremiah accepted with a mumbled thanks and an expression of pure, undulated delight spreading across his face.

"Bye, Mr. Grimstone!"

Mr. Grimstone watched Jeremiah trotting off down the street, a bit gladder than before. Soon. See you later, boy.

This is all. XD Press the pretty review button, pleaaase!