The Eye of the Beholder

You know, waking up isn’t what it used to be. After all, isn’t sleeping supposed to make you feel better? It’s supposed to be “rest and recuperate”. How long have I been out, anyway?

I grumble and sit up in bed, cringing as a wave of ache and nausea tosses me like a wounded ship at sea. Everything is blurry for a few seconds as my world swims into focus, and when it does, my vision is still slanted. From my nightstand, the digits mark out 12:10 in an angry crimson glow. The sun screams in from beyond restlessly shuffling curtains. It’s past noon and I’ve been asleep for about four hours.

Downstairs, the merry sizzle of something dead warming in a skillet is creeping its way through my nostrils. That is, if the sizzling isn’t coming from my brain. Mom’s making breakfast late this Sunday. Normally I’d be licking my chops. Right now I’m holding my head, trying to focus. I sigh, and my body protests from follicles to feet. The wild work of the night has left its footprints on my senses; I feel dull, heavy, drained.

Mom calls, “Anthony, come and get your food before your brother eats it all!”

“In a minute!” I croak, straining to be audible.

Climbing out of bed is a battle between gravity and me. Somehow, I emerge victorious and trudge my way toward the bathroom. The world looks smaller somehow, as if I’m in Wonderland and wearing a house for a vest. My shoulder collides with the doorframe and I stumble, but not before catching a glimpse of myself, reflected in the medicine cabinet.

Exhibit A: the face of a lanky something-teen boy, with mussed copper hair and dark circles coiled beneath hazel eyes. Exhibit B: his expression of horror. Suddenly the shrinking sensation makes sense. I face my reflection and squint my left eye shut. Part of the room shaves itself from my vision. I snap closed my right eye and gasp; I’m staring at total darkness.

I shove my startled mug up close to the mirror and pull down my left eyelid. Purple and bloodshot, the flesh underneath could be a slice of prime rib. Around the eye the skin is soft to my touch and I can already feel it turning colors. Looking dead on, however, the damage isn’t evident. Not to worry, kid, just go downstairs and act normal.

It’s already obvious that no one noticed my departure last night, or the fact that I came home minutes before the rest of the family should be getting up. After all, why would they have reason to suspect? I mean, it’s Anthony, the honor roll student, reporting for duty! My parents’ van still has a graying D.A.R.E. sticker plastered to its bumper like a medal of honor. They’re pulling out wallet photos and reciting all the proud parent gibberish, and here I am getting trashed every weekend. I guess it never bothers me, so long as no one gets hurt.

Well, so much for that. This is not currently happening, I remind myself. Yes, it is, my self reminds me. Just go downstairs and eat breakfast; figure the rest out later. Grappling at two tufts of hair and yanking til my skin sears, I start to walk away. Then my stomach lurches for real, and I have to run to the toilet and retch up a pool of sudsy orange scum. So much for the Cheetos my four a.m. munchies had required.

I flush it away, chug and spit a swallow of mouthwash, and once again, I attempt to go downstairs. A needle drops, and a record skips somewhere in my head- I’m not blind, I’m not blind, I’m not blind. Walking faster with each incantation, I hit a corner at full keel and bite back a curse.

“Careful honey, you’ll put an eye out like that!” my mother chirps, peering at me from the kitchen table. My brother Josh cocks a smile and snickers. Sticking my tongue out, I grab a plate and pile it with toast, then sit down at the edge of the table. A trial nibble assures me that toast will not betray my innards, so I scarf down two or three pieces. “Anthony, you’re eating like a wolf,” my mother points out, then, “And you look like a dead one. You feel okay?”

My throat catches around a dry hunk of whole grain, and I cough.

“Finish eating and get back to bed, kid, doctor’s orders,” she quips as if I’d protested. Her voice betrays less than a trace of suspicion, so I take the opportunity to ham it up, and sulk my way back upstairs.

How long can you keep a secret from your family? I’m not sure, especially if it’s something like this. Probably forever, part of me figures. Assuming I no longer have a conscience, it’d be easy enough to make up a story explaining the arrival of my new friend- Mr. Black Eye. Besides, I can still basically see. More even than the lie, what’s bothering me is the fact that I know I can get away with it. More even than that, it’s the realization that I have no idea how this happened.

Yeah, I’ve done some crazy things before while I was drugged, blacked out more than once… but this? I don’t know how to explain this, even to myself. My brain is still mulling it over as I ease back into bed, saying, you woke up blind; what if next time you wake up dead? Am I going to change? That’s something I can’t answer. That’s some other secret, and who knows how well it’ll keep.

Something nags at my mind, slim minutes later, as I’m drifting off to sleep. It’s something murky, but keen, it sings in a bass beyond perception, keeping pace with my heart. I dance with it, the fragile dance of predator and prey, but time grows fuzzy, and it escapes. In the half-sleep I imagine the eye is swelling huge, like a beacon, screaming out my guilt, a warning. I drift off, and at some point, I dream of the sea.