Blurred Vision

Blurred Vision

Mr. Herrick is a wrinkled man. He lives in a small colonial home next to a churchyard, a rusted wire link fence as the only means of marking the difference between his lawn and the humble graveyard that grew on the same land. The house is painted in a yellow that years ago was robust as lemon, but now has forgotten the brightness of its former hue. The trim, however, was a loud, youthful red, like the lips of a charming smile from an elegant lady. Within the perimeter of the ruby trim on the send of floor was an expansive bay window, so wide and open, it begs you to peer through it.

On the other side of that window sits Mr. Herrick in his office. He leans back in a stately leather chair and peels off his glasses, brushing through the final smoky wisps of hair that remain above his ears. After a few pats on each of his pant pockets, and one last clasp upon his breast pocket, he faintly cocks his head over his hunched shoulder. He has drawn the conclusion nobody is watching him. With fumbling fingers, he clutches his lilac, paisley necktie, furrows his brow and begins to draw careful, yet unescapable shaken circles over the moonlike discs of glass that are his spectacles. He stares buffonishly down as he does this task, mouth agape like a child struggling to understand the rules. Once he’s finished he takes in a breath and closes his eyes, careful to not accidentally poke one as his trembling hands return the glasses to their proper seat.

As he does this, an amber light flows in the room from beyond where the bay window will allow you to see. Ms. Herrick is a gorgeous woman. She glides in from the door she has just opened, swaddling a mug of tea with her kind hands. She says something sweet and playful and Mr. Herrick turns clumsy around and raises his hands in simple surprise to see that his grandaughter has brought him Earl Grey tea again at the same time she always does. Her mouth droops and her brows raise in her innocent affection for her grandfather, she must find him adorable. She hands him the porcelain mug but for some reason his clutch cannot sustain the weight of it this time, and a cascade of steaming umber crashes down on her white dress.

Ms. Herrick clenches her teeth but releases a brave breath outwards and portrays a smile to comfort the old man’s guilt. Fittingly he looks embarrassed and goes to stand up and help, but she gestures for him to stay as she scurries out of the room.

Through the next window over, she tries to collect herself. Her breath becomes more staggered and fills and deflates her chest. She clenches her finely manicured hands strongly in front of her, the deep red of her nails contrasting off of her white knuckles like holly berries during the winter. Her plump lips purse. A strong breath rushes out through them. She shuts her azure eyes and from the corner of one, a rolling tear escapes, stealing the stain of her mascara and painting the curve of her cheek with it. She opens her palms. Then her eyes. Lastly her mouth, breathing in softly and appearing to calm her. Her left arm reaches around her back and her long fingers crawl up her spine searching for the zipper of her stained dress. Its grabbed. She pulls it down. There’s her back. She pulls down more and-

I put down my binoculars and look away. I despise myself everytime I watch from dull room across the road to watch her undress. My heart thumps aggressively against my chest and a cold sweat breaks out. As my palms moisten and goosebumps grow on the back of my neck, I back away from the window and grasp clumps of my hair in hand. There is no disillusion or rationalization in my mind, I know exactly the creep that I am and I hate myself for it. The disgust that you might feel for me is only a fraction of what I feel for myself. I know how messed up my nightly voyeuristic routine is more than anyone. And with that I vow to break my binoculars and never peek across the street again. But she is like wine, and I am drunk. My nightly vow has once again been immediately broken as if like clock work. I crawl to the window and pick up the heavy binoculars again, with equal parts shame and delight.

*************

Later on in the night, I lie in my bed staring blankly up at the ceiling until the off-white expanse of plaster begins to disappear and become a window into my thoughts. The good news is that tonight was certainly the very last time I keel over to my sick perversion. If I cave again, then all the dark hypotheses about myself are truly right. All that I amount to is a twisted pervert. What would people treat me like if they knew? I hardly ever speak to anyone, but the imagined glares of repugnance from women, and the aggressive approach of stronger men terrify me. Although, in defence of myself. I’m hardly Ms. Herrick’s tormentor. Her ungrateful grandfather causes her so much grief. It’s only I who knows how torn and terrible she really is by all of this. He is far too undeserving to have someone like her, a gorgeous angel full of grace, serve him his oafish arse day in and day out without anything in return. If I were on the other side of the window, I would worship her lavishly, she wouldn’t need to walk, I’d carry her, if I was able. The poor woman. The only thing to validate her hardship, the only thing that makes it worth it, is my watching of her. Without that, all of her work would be in vain with no appreciation. She needs me to watch her, just as I need her to watch. I smile.

Reassured, and now proud of myself, I sit up in my bed to stare across the road once more, if only to see the outline of her house and to envision just how she sleeps. I stare out the window and nearly scream. Perched on a branch of the oak tree in front of my window is the white body of a barn owl, staring into my own window and right at me with its hollow, black eyes. The owls eyes show no emotion, just observation. Its soulless head crooks nearly upside down, as if to examine every sinew of my bare and frail torso. I am exposed. This owl is a spirit of judgement, glaring at me, rendering me a piece of meat, its prey, if not by talons then by shame. Wait. I’m safe. I remember the pain of glass separating me from the creature, keeping me safe, I can see everything but am in no danger! I already fear people far too much, why let this pathetic bird rule over me and invade my room with its eyes. With a bony foot, I launch a pillow toward the glass to frighten it off. The owl remains. I begin to perspire, and I clutch my blanket, before slowly approaching the window.

As I reach it, I realize that this owl isn’t malicious, only fascinated. The bird is far from a monster, it’s more like me, a peaceful observer, a friend from afar. I feel seen. It knows what I am and it’s here to show me that I am with good company. I press my pointer finger against the glass to greet the owl. It shows no response, only staring deeper and more cold at me, now, straight into my eyes. I tap the glass to break its concentration. It screeches. So do I.

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A few weeks have passed and each day has been the same. Waiting, patiently through the hours until I have the time to sit at my roost and see her. Through the black circles of my binoculars I become more and more familiar with every part of her being everyday, the way that she ties her flaming red hair, the way she licks her lips in thought, the way she holds Mr. Herrick in her arms more everyday as if she truly cared for him. She must know that I’m watching. If not consciously then on some deeper animal or spiritual level. I can feel her communicating to me as she pampers him more and more everyday. When she started to spoon feed him all of his food, although I am repulsed by his infantile, rude dependency for her, I’m astute enough to realize that this is her showing me more and more of her, coming into his office more and more often so that I can get the clearest view of her. My angel knows me!

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Today, Mr. Herrick sleeps in his chair overnight. Ms. Herrick is nowhere to be found and I am stuck begrudgingly stare at the waste of a man. After hours of him sullenly staring forward breathing in a stupid, droll way the way a bulldog might something unprecedented happens. Mr. Herrick turns his head and looks out the window. I act to move but am caught by his blank old face. Our eyes lock. I have never said a word to this man, and despite months of observing him and his granddaughter, neither have ever seen me. My anxiety flares, and I am frozen dead in shock. He takes a long disappointed breath and closes his eyes. Eyes closed, he slowly commands his mouth into a...smile. Not threateningly, but a kind, genuine smile. Tears start to course down the different valleys on his face and he slowly lifts up a hand. I go to lift up mine.

A car pulls in the driveway! I fling my sight as quick as possible to see her leg stretch out of the car. Her shoe hits the ground and my eyes follow her slowly every step she takes up the path to her front door. But wait..he was watching. No! I’ve just ruined everything, that hound of an old man was watching me stare her down and he’s going to tell her all about it. I shut the curtains and retreat deeper into my house.

*************************************************

A few days later I deem it safe to return to my routine again. I stare for hours, but the lights are off and there is no one in the house. Had they left town and I hadn’t realized? No. I know what happened. He exposed everything that rat and they must be moving her back to her parents today to get her away from me. Why? What did I ever do wrong? Why did that rat have to punish me, when he’s the one who had been using her!

I pan my vision to the road in a feeble attempt to see if maybe, just maybe her car is driving down towards the house to return to me. But instead, my eye is caught in the churchyard next door. It’s raining and tough to see anything outside but there’s a figure that I would recognize anywhere donned in black, hunched over, weeping. In front of her a coffin lowers into the ground. It hits me. The Mr. Herrick wasn’t saying hello the other day. He was saying goodbye. And all the while that I had been watching, creating the story of what was happening across the road, forming my own selfish narrative to a poor man dying and his sweet granddaughter trying to help. I begin to weep, not only for Mr. Herrick, but for myself. For when the time comes for me to be lowered in a box, all there will be is pair of binoculars that serve nobody anymore.