The Eyes of the Lost

Seeing was believing, but that's something you didn't tell someone who saw things he wasn't suppose to see. Jay Fletcher was riding down Maple Avenue in Cape May County in his brand new custom-made 2004 Lexus IS. The luxury sedan was blue, and so was his mood that afternoon in July.

Jeremy "Jay" Fletcher had been a famous NASCAR driver for seven swift years. To him, the life he lived sped by very quickly; he hated to wait for things to happen—he needed to make them happen. He had a fancy for living life in the fast lane and didn't care what he collided into because, in his mind, he could pass though anything and not have to worry about the holes he made in them. He fell through those holes his second lap around when he had that untested operation.

Nearly winning every race he participated in (Daytona and Indy 500 both), Jeremy had green papers with presidents on them coming out of his ass. He was a bold thirty year-old blonde with a quick mind in his head. The hairstyle he always wore was something Tom Cruise always had—but dirty blonde. He had the energy someone might mistaken for a high from methamphetamines, and many critics wondered if was on some kind of stimulant. His wife Linette tried to keep up with his pace as best as she could, holding on when he swerved and swung over on the sharp turns in extent of their twelve-year relationship and five-year marriage.

Now he was cruising down the avenue, but suspiciously. Anything could appear at anytime and anyplace. Not just any-old-thing—strange things, bizarre things, unspeakable things. Unspeakable was such an ironic word; it was meant to suggest that no words could be used to describe something, but the word itself said so much. Maybe some things were too grand to speak of, and others too small to speak of. In Jay's new eyes, however, things were now just un-fucking-speakable, period.

New eyes. They were old eyes to him, and those old eyes saw things on their own. Yes, it was weird, but he could have shut his eyelids over his eyes to keep them from seeing things, right?

Wrong.

His eyes were somehow in control of him. Ever since that damned eye surgery he had a month ago, he began to experience this odd phenomenon. He had been in a brutal accident on the track in Daytona, Florida a week before that. He had been trailing on the tail of the leading car when he decided to ram his car's front right tire into the leading car's left rear tire. Playing dirty on the track only meant one thing: desperation. Vincent Greene, the driver of that leading car, had bragged about how he was going to "burn" Jay on the racetrack that day and actually put up twenty-five grand the he was going to do just that; Jay had been desperate to win. Anything he could do to win was an option, no matter how dangerous it was.

As soon as he had did that little dirty trick with his tires, the left side of his car (clad in many different sponsoring logos like Corn Flakes and McDonald's) flipped and flew over Vincent's car. It had tumbled at least twelve times, each time more devastating than previous one, and it the car landed upside-down on the track. The windshield had shattered on the fourth flip, and that was when some of the glass slashed through the helmet and right into both of his eyes. It had been a sunny Sunday, but he'd never know that as the paramedics took him out of the car and put him in the ambulance truck via gurney.

In the truck, the only thing he had been able to do was scream and hear himself scream. His eyes did more than burn—they smoldered. He could feel the installation of the I.V. in his arm and the breathing tubes up his nostrils. Later on he'd be humiliated, for the footage of his dirty trick on the track would be all over TV and the radio and the press. But that wasn't the whole account, though; he had to give Vince Greene twenty-five big ones—and that had been publicized three weeks before the stinkin' race. What would everyone think of him when they heard of his dirty little trick against Greene? He hadn't been able to think of that—the pitiful pain from his gashed eyes made him black out for almost two weeks.


He woke up. All could see was nothing. Then something. A pair of legs, sexy legs, thick thighs with bodacious calves with red heels and red toenails. His eyes trailed upward to see a red skirt that barely covered the

(vagina?)

upper half of the thighs. The legs were walking toward him—who had these legs? He could feel his manhood rising, and something

(sheets?)

tickled him down there. A white light slashed into his eyes like ice pick as he opened them wider. All white except for those juicy legs. He tried to sit up on some soft surface

(bed?)

he was lying on to see the upper torso, probably a cute and lean model coming to wrap those long legs around his waist

(ow! my waist is killin me)

and do the do and do it good.

There was no upper torso. All he could see was blood and intestines boiling over the top of the waist like a pot of grits left unattended. I'm not seeing that, Jay repeated in his mind, I'm not looking at a pair of legs without a body to own them. He tried to move over on the bed and bumped his back on something. It fell on something hard

(floor?)

and something burst into a million pieces. It made him jump, and something fell out of his nose

(air tube?)

onto the sheets. Then those sexy legs stepped onto the bed. They walked with one heel on both sides of his body, and blood riveted down the inner thighs. Jay's eyes enlarged as if he had no eyelids to his name as he attempted to move backwards on the bed. Where the fuck is the body? he thought.

The legs fell to knees, and Jay got his wish—those sexy legs were bound at his aching waist. He tried to wiggle himself out like a worm in wet earth, budging violently in all directions. The legs refuse to give in, tightening and constricting even more. He screamed out in anguish, the pain deep in his hips like a never-ending gopher hole. When he tried to pry the legs apart he felt that something was linked to

(I.V.?)

his left arm. The stirrup holding the intravenous apparatus crashed to the floor. Red was all over his groin area of the sheets.


Hey there,

This is supposed to be a cliffhanger, as you can see. It will be continued, so hang on! It is best that you use your eyes wisely to find the next installment of The Eyes of the Lost--or your eyes might use you. Read and review with your eyes wide open.

Zander Williams