The Eyes Have It

It starts with a word. Two letters are not where they’re supposed to be. One blink and it’s gone. You chalk it up to a lack of caffeine, maybe too much of it, and continue on your day. Everything happens as it normally does, and you think nothing of it. In fact, maybe you imagined the whole thing.

A few days later, it happens again. Only this time it doesn’t go away with a blink. You do, however, rub your eyes for a second which seems to do the trick. It must be the lack of sleep you’ve been getting and you promise yourself it’s lights out before ten tonight.

A few days later, it’s entire paragraphs. Words and letters are jumbled, making no sense, and you know you can’t blame this one on caffeine. Maybe lack of sleep though. You’ve only been getting a few hours each night, even with the newly imposed “lights out before ten” rule, but that’s no cause for hallucination, is it? A panic starts to rise in your chest, your breath starts to quicken. What if you have a disease? What if you need eye surgery? What if it goes wrong and you’re blind forever? What if you’re crazy? I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with? You squeeze them shut and count to ten, certain that when you open them back up, everything will be normal.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Sixseveneightnineten.

Slowly, you pry one eye open. You breathe a sigh of relief as the words have found their way back to the rightful place on the page. Everything makes sense again. Except why they were jumbled in the first place. You think back and realize it’s been forever since you’ve had a physical, and now seems as good a time as any.

The doctor says everything looks fine, save for a slightly high cholesterol but nothing to worry about. You even passed the eye chart test, reading all the way down to the last line. You’re silent for a minute. She asks if everything is alright, and you consider your options. Either tell the doctor what’s been happening and risk sounding like a lunatic, or take their word that you are in good health and hope this thing resolves itself. You choose option B, thank the doctor, and leave the hospital.

A week goes by without incident. You’ve all but forgotten about your ocular mishaps until you’re writing down a grocery list. Letters, numbers, even symbols all over the paper. Nothing is where it’s supposed to be. One line is even “######”. Your eyes widen in horror as you scan down the list. You don’t bother to count to ten this time, or even twenty. You know it wouldn’t do any good. You kick yourself for not telling the doctor what was going on, and call to make another appointment. By some miracle, your doctor has had a last minute cancellation and could you make it there by three? You say yes, you absolutely can. I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with?

You sit in your car in the driveway, engine on, hands on the steering wheel. There’s something nagging at you in the back of your brain, but seeing as you haven’t been able to read a word in the English language correctly all day, you figure it’s that. You say a silent prayer of thanks that you know the way to the hospital by heart. And another silent prayer that you’re not crazy.

Driving out of the hospital parking lot, you feel a thousand pounds lighter. The doctors visit couldn’t have gone better. With prescriptions for a strong anti-stress medication and a sleep aid in your pocket (of course that’s what it was, you’ve been under an extraordinary amount of stress lately and you can’t believe you hadn’t noticed it before), you drive to the pharmacy. While you’re there, you stock up on the usual; shampoo, deodorant, a razor, and those chocolate protein bars with coconut in them. You head home feeling like a new man.

As soon as you arrive home, you take your first of two prescriptions. Its only five, so you’ll save the sleep-aid for later. Something is still nagging at you, but you’re in too good of a mood to dwell on it. You’re basically cured, and can’t wait for a good nights sleep. You make some dinner and decide to watch a movie.

Finally, ten o’clock rolls around, and you’re ready for bed. You’re sitting on the bed, taking your watch off, when suddenly, it hits you. The thing that’s been bugging you all day. You couldn’t put your finger on it until now, but the realization hits you like a freight train.

The grocery list.

You run downstairs to the fridge. It’s still there, held to the fridge by a stupid “I Went to Vegas and All I Got Was This Magnet” magnet. You rip it off and scan the list. The words are still jumbled and as cryptic as they were a few hours ago, but this time you notice. “Bread” is “aberd”. “Spaghetti” is “itehtpsga”. “Eggs” is “stiemit”. “Cereal” is “yeobogb”.

The words are jumbled and as cryptic as they were a few hours ago, but this time you notice. Eggs and cereal. Eggs and cereal. Eggs. Cereal. Those words are jumbled, but with the wrong letters. You heart drops into your stomach and a cold sweat breaks out over your body. You make your way to the dining room table with the pen and the list and collapse into a chair.

The seconds turn into minutes, which turn into hours. You’re trying your best to unscramble the words but you can only do so much thinking before your eyes have to blink and the letters are once again scattered over the page. One step forwards, three steps back. You’ve somehow become a prisoner to your own eyeballs, but finally, finally, you have it. You stare at the words for as long as you possibly can before the sting becomes unbearable and you force your eyes to close.

It’s time. Goodbye.

You sit back in your chair, defeated, eyes still closed. A single tear slips out from underneath your eyelid and down your cheek. It’s not a coincidence. It can’t be. Your eyes open and you stare upwards, enjoying the simplicity of the white ceiling. No symbols, no codes. Just white. You think. What do you do? Going back to the doctor seems like the logical choice, but you know she would just tell you to let the medication do its work. What an easy job she has. You should've gone to medical school. You know it’s not that, though. You know you’re past the help of pills. This is something else. It has to be. Yes. That’s it. It’s a setup. Someone or something is trying to get to you. They’re using you as a host to carry out some kind of mission. Who are they though? Aliens? The government? Yes. That has to be it. Okay. You’ve figured out their plan. Now you have to figure out how to stop it. How to stop it. How. How. How. Stop. How to stop it. I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left with?

You get up, casually as to not let any potential spies watching know you’ve figured out their plan. You walk over to the garbage to throw the grocery list out. That’s when something catches your eye. You didn’t notice it before because you were so preoccupied with the eggs and the cereal. You scan the list a few times just to make sure. Yes, it’s there, plain as day. “Eggs” is “stiemit”. “Cereal” is “yeobogb”. “Razor blades” is

“Razor blades.”

You blink once. Twice. Three times. You rub until you see television static behind your eyes but when you open them, it’s still there. Unscrambled. Razor blades. Razor. Blades. Razor. Blades. Blades. Blades.

Are you cured? Of course you’re not. That’s probably what they want you to think. You can’t let them win. Think. Think. Razor. Blades. How to stop it. Stop. How. Blades. Eggs. Cereal. Blades. It’s time. Goodbye.

Of course. How did you miss it? When the puzzle pieces finally fall into place, you know what you have to do. Unlike the first realization, this washes you over with a serene satisfaction. Your whole body feels like when you finally remember that song you’ve been thinking about all day, or when you scratch a hard to reach itch. You stand up, content, and head upstairs.

The blades were harder than you imagined to get out of the plastic razor casing, but nonetheless, you persisted. You stand in front of your mirror, doing nothing but studying your features. Who knows the next time you’ll see them. Your hair starting to grey at the ears, your five o’ clock shadow (which you could have taken care of had you noticed before performing an autopsy on the razor five minutes before), the bags under your eyes which you’re sure wouldn’t be as bad if not for the toll of the past few weeks. You stare. The logical part of your brain tells you this is not the solution, but it’s nowhere near as loud as the voice telling you it is. Will it hurt? Probably. But that pales in comparison to what they’ll do to you if they catch you. And you can’t let that happen. You won’t. You thought your hand would be trembling as it makes its way up to just underneath your lower lash line, but it’s as steady as a rock. You really should’ve gone to medical school. Just a few minutes more and this will all be over.

I mean, if you can’t trust your eyes, what are you left wiht?