Eyes

My mom always said the eyes were the windows to the soul. She was right.

     I was fifteen when I became obsessed with drawing. Two of my friends had come over to my house, one of which was an artist. Out of boredom, she suggested that we have a drawing contest. So we did. I discovered I had an exceptional talent in realism.

     So I continued to draw, faces, mostly. Each face became more real than previous ones as I learned to shade and create subliminal nuances.

     At some point those drawings kept me going at school and through tough times. I'd look at them, speak to them, compliment how beautiful they were.

     One day, my mother told us we were going to a wedding of some big politician. She handed out jewelery to me and my sister, adorning both of us with "protective crystals". I thought they were a sham from the senile old lady who sold them. But it was pretty, so I put it on.

     There was nothing worth commenting on at the party. It was nice, with expensive decorations and rich people. But boring.

     After getting home, I undressed and dropped the heavy dress on the floor. The necklace was heavier than when I put it on, presumably from how exhausted I was. I slipped it off and placed it on the drawing on my desk. It was unfinished, eyeless and

featureless. I wasn't sure where I was going with that one. I flopped onto the bed.

     Early in the morning, I woke up in a trance. I was aware of everything through a dreamlike haze, but I wasn't paying attention. So I didn't focus on my hand pulling out a charcoal pencil. I didn't think when I finished the last eyelash. I didn't know through the haze when the necklace gleamed like quicksilver was poured over it. And I amounted the strange feeling of being sucked into the drawing's unnatural black eyes as part of a strange dream.

     Until I was suddenly awake. I could see everything clearly. But I was looking from the wrong place. From the wrong object. At the wrong things.