Her eyes were quiet.
That's what he noticed the most. Eyes were said to be windows to the souls, and he firmly believed that. He looked into people's eyes and saw who they were in them. Some had angry eyes, forever searching to release it. Some eyes were sad, shiny with tears not yet wept. There were reckless eyes, hopeful eyes, daring eyes, crazy eyes, lying eyes. But he had never seen quiet eyes. Not until her, at least.
At first, he thought she was the type to have guarded eyes. But, she did not. Even guarded eyes let the true self shine through. Her eyes were simply quiet, like a deep undisturbed pond, to which you could not find the bottom.
He dismissed her at first. Those eyes made her seem empty. There was no personality, no self in her eyes. Still, even as he left those quiet eyes behind for eyes of lust, curiosity, control, the quiet eyes followed him.
Their paths crossed again. He knew it was her, though much time had passed. The eyes were one-of-a-kind. And they never changed. Eyes never changed. They know your true self even before you do. He firmly believed that too.
After their second meeting, he hated the quiet eyes. He hated how much he could not meet her eyes. How those cursed eyes unnerved him! In the fury of his hatred, he was aware of one thing: he had to get rid of them. He had to banish them, to where he had banished all the other eyes.
His clear mind knew this was a bad idea. He had never been swept into it like this before. His usual calculated manner was replaced by a fit of passion. He prepared himself in a rush. The quiet eyes were driving him every step of the way. He saw them with every breath, every movement, mocking him.
Why can't you figure s out? Those eyes seemed to stay. You know eyes, why don't you know us? Are we too difficult? Or are you not smart enough?
Inside, he raged. He was smart enough. He would understand the quiet eyes. He must. Finished with his preparations, he left. It was time. Time to hunt the quiet eyes.
He had them. The quiet eyes belonged to him. At least, soon, so very soon, they would. For now, he had the package wrapped in his grasp. The quiet eyes and the girl. She was terrified, but her eyes remained quiet. Empty as ever, he thought in disgust. No matter. Whatever her eyes were in life, they always ended up the same: dead. He loved eyes, worshipped their differences, but how he loved the dead eyes the most. It just proved to him that they, all people, were the same; that there was nothing wrong with him. If the true self reflected in our eyes all ended the same, then all the people that said he had problems should be locked away, were wrong. Because they were no better, no different, than him.
He looked down at the quiet eyed girl. She lay in the same place that so many others had lain. He remembered how, every time, their eyes had changed. He had managed to get to their true self and change it. Change it into pure terror. But this girl, though her face was terrified her eyes remained quiet. He did his worst to her, and her screams sliced the empty night, but her eyes did not change.
Filled with ugly fury, he pushed her, forcing her body past its limits. The eyes continued to defy him. Quiet, same as always, the stared back at him. Quiet; unafraid. Why wasn't she afraid? Why couldn't he worm his way into her soul and terrify it? Why couldn't he break her?
He paused, glancing down at the broken body and unchanged soul. Those large eyes were unchanged, barely blinking as she waited for his next move. He knew his next move was to kill her. Her and her empty quiet eyes. He hated to do it, not because he hated to kill, but rather, he hated to kill while her spirit still remained her own. She should die when he owned her soul with fear. But they had been here too long. The only thing that comforted him was that, in the end, she would have dead eyes. No one could escape the dead eyes.
In that way, he would win.
She struggled again as he approached. Her eyes widened at the weapon, but there was still no fear. Her eyes do not change because they are empty, he told himself. Not because she is strong. In one deft movement, he stole her life.
She clung to her last breath but she could not hold it. It faded, along with the movement in her limbs, the beat of her heart. But he wasn't interested in that. He watched her eyes. The quiet eyes that plagued his life would be no more. They would be dead eyes and he would finally own her.
He sat and watched her. He watched until her body was cold. Her eyes didn't fade. They were as quiet as they had been in life. With horror, he realized that the soul had called empty was so full, so rich, that it could not be changed. And he had trapped it. He had trapped the strong soul in the quiet eyes.
The realization made him go mad.
He fled the secret place, the eyes that had broken him. Covered in blood, he ran through the streets. The eyes were everywhere. The quiet eyes, everyone's eyes. They were all turned to him. Shrieking, he darted into an alleyway. No more eyes. No more eyes. Crouched in a dank corner, he gouged at his face. Nails tore into soft flesh. His delicate eyes gave way to his strong fingers. Warm liquid coated his hands, though he could no longer see it. He was safe. Safe forever from the eyes.
The thing that brought the police to him was the scream. It was the scream of the hunted. They found the man, rocking and coated red. No matter what was said to him, from that day after, he would only say one thing; "quiet eyes, go away. Quiet eyes, go away!"
But they never did.