Karen felt the eyes that looked at her even when she closed her own, even when she forgot everything else. They watched her at every moment, followed her every movement. Now eyes were the first thing she noticed. She saw them everywhere and they always looked at her, even when they didn’t.
The court-assigned psychiatrist turned the pages, his eyes fixed on Karen, giving her a headache while he read the schedule for the next week.
“I have an hour open at 6 pm on Mondays”, he said without a sound, without moving his lips, while looking at her on the reflection of his watch.
“Oh, it’s right now”, he continued, “but we could actually start next week, I -” he nervously stuttered “have something to do today”.
Karen stood there as if waiting.
“Next Monday. Now, let us leave”, he looked at her toward the door and walked away, gesturing for her to leave. People always had this tendency to look at her through proxy-objects. Sometimes the door, their food, or even other people.
But it was really impolite. Why did they do this? Did she have a bad appearance? They made her really uncomfortable, self-conscious. ”Is it my clothes?”, she asked herself, thinking about her black-and-white striped dress.
“Is anything bothering you, Ms. Karen?”, the man finally asked, tired of waiting and gesturing.
She trembled for a second, shocked that he had noticed. But he had asked. She should tell him. Maybe he would solve her doubt. She finally mustered some bravery and spoke.
“Why - why are you looking at me?”, she asked.
“We are talking. It’s common courtesy”, he professorially explained.
“No, no, but - why - always - you’re always looking at me!”, she finally screamed, flustered by the interaction.
He stood still, looking at her. He just stood there, expressionless, freaking her out. She was becoming very scared. Finally, he approached, eyes wide open. Her father had passed years ago, but while he was alive, he always reminded her to carry a gun, and in an occasion such as this, she very much felt like she needed it.
She retreated, searched her purse, and as the psychiatrist advanced in a zombie-like mode, she pulled out a revolver and shot at him.She shot four times and watched him fall to his knee, pressing his abdomen, then to the ground. She ran to the door.
There was a crowd waiting outside, together with five men wearing white and a woman with a clipboard. Why did they always have clipboards? They looked at her, serious and expressionless, and walked toward her. They looked like zombies. The only thing missing was them raising their arms forward and screaming eerily. Then, they raised their arms.
“Crap”, Karen thought, raised her gun and shot a few times, but these ones didn’t budge when the bullets hit them. They just approached them from all sides and in a panic, she jumped back toward the closed door and fell on the floor sitting. She covered her face and screamed. She was going to die for certain. One of them pulled something out, needle? When she noticed, she tried to avoid it, but she was grabbed and the needle punctured her arm.
The eyes looked at Karen in her dream. They were not pairs of eyes, only eyes, floating without heads: round spheres with red nerves coming from behind, always looking at her, no matter where they flew, no matter where the pupils pointed at. They watched her. She felt consumed, as if they were eating her by watching her.
She woke up screaming, tied to a bed. She tried to force herself out, but could not. She looked left, feeling watched, but no one was there. She knew, though, that there were eyes somewhere, looking at her. She screamed more, fighting the belts that kept her down. She was going to be eaten.
Suddenly, the door opened. The strongest scream up to now tore her throat and came as a terrible wail, her eyes opening and almost seemingly bulging out. The psychiatrist was there, emotionlessly looking at her.
“Dianne, Ms. Duarte will be having 500 milligrams of Chlorpromazine right now. Then 50 three times a day.”
Karen walked toward the tree in the garden. She could have sworn that the big root next to the door had eyes the day before. Strange.
All pictures above were taken from Pixabay, a royalty-free image source.
I started this story while waiting in a café for a friend. I stopped when we met, but then I had some time in the night to finish it, since I thought that the idea had some potential. I hope you liked the result. If you did, please leave me an upvote and most importantly, a comment telling me what you thought.
