Her Eyes

Her eyes are dark. When I look at them I think of violence. Violent men. The sort with deep, sunken eyes, shrouded in shadows. Little black pearls that when gazed upon reveal nothing of a soul within. A sort of stark, loveless void where good things go to die.

No remorse. No regret.

She stares at me with those same black eyes. Yet they hold none of the contempt borne by thugs or villains. They are glassy. Still. False of course. The originals rotted a few nights ago. But they have a certain allure to them. Like a bolted door that shines at the edges from light within. What is on the other side?

I’m almost done. She’s almost ready. I make a joke in my head: she might soon be right to fly again. A smile twitches at the corner of my lip, but I extinguish it quickly. This is no time for humor. It is a time for focus.

What a pretty shine her plumage has under this light. A beautiful object brought down from the heavens by God in his most merciful mood. I expect she’s once more above the clouds, soaring, as the dead do, in an everlasting dance; celebrating their release from mortal concern. There are nights I see the bottom of my bottle and yearn for such simple release.

But I have work to do.

My needle flies quickly, the thread following in swift form. Tighten here. Press the flesh together. Make it whole. I wipe my brow to stop my coursing sweat from ruining my work. A single drop would banish her purity. I make her whole with mortal hands, but by mine will she will be greater than that. She will be immortal.

How long have I been down here? I wonder. My attention is all on the needle as it swims through her skin. I know I was here yesterday. Last night, I saw the sun go down, till light no longer shone from my basement window, but did I sleep? I think– no, I feel quite certain I must have. Else, why do I feel so vigorous with the sun once more at rest?

Yet– I remember the light return. Shining bright upon these stone walls. This day. Today. But… That makes no sense. I attend well to my health. Make certain I obtain the hours of sleep necessary to do my work at full force. I have no choice with my condition. But– my memory clouds. I should not be thinking of this. The work– I must complete it, then I can attend to my chambers. I will sleep well knowing I have restored her to her former state.

She is so beautiful. My needle punctures her body again. I draw the thread deep into her, then pull it out with an expert hand.

It is with these hands I will bring her back to life.

I remember the moment when life left her. These wicked, vile, men. They can do anything. They have no bounds. They will kill, steal, burn, rape. Violent, awful, men. I know them well. By their eyes. Those dark, dark eyes.

My pace quickens. When I think of that night, I become agitated. And why shouldn’t I? Is it fair that her life should be so abruptly extinguished? Before nature had time to rightly run its course? No. Is it fair that I should suffer the will of the wicked? Be forced to do that which by rights I should never have to do? No.

Should I be expected to work the broken body of my beloved back to life when the stench of her is overwhelming? When her rotting flesh fills my nostrils like mustard gas?

No. No. No. It is not fair. It is not right.

But I persevere.

Her eyes. Her black, empty eyes. Sometimes when I look at them I gag. It takes me a long, quiet moment to compose myself. Before I can return to my work. My work– it’s… awful. But I must do it. I owe it to her. I owe her the life that I myself denied her.

The barn owl does not hoot as the rest of its kind do. Instead, it screams. A sustained, violent, hideous sound that pierces the woods and curdles the blood of all those unfortunate enough to cross its path. My love sounded like that when I snapped her neck.

It’s getting quite late. I should go to sleep.

The needle flies on. There should be no sleep for wicked men, till they have repented for their sins. And I am– so– close–

With an unceremonial flick of the wrist, I have her. She is done. Complete. Whole again.

Thank the heavens– by the glory of the Lord she is as beautiful as the day we first met. Her skin like fresh cream. Her hair like freshly sown straw. Her eyes–

Fuck. Her EYES.

HER EYES!