Do you ever feel like you're being watched? Like you can feel the eyes burrowing into the back of your head, making you feel like every move, every step must be deliberate, as if you were a main character on screen. But tread carefully, for each step could be your last...
Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Eyes in pictures, eyes on TV, eyes in my head. I could feel the paranoia creeping in again like an unwelcome friend who made my insides itch with a single mention of their name. I paced rather frantically around my apartment, my eye catching on every picture frame, every book cover, every poster on the walls. Each of them with people in them. Each with eyes that seemed to follow my every step.
I felt like I was going mad. Like my mind was being consumed by a black ink before melting away any ounce of sanity I had left. I knew it wasn't right to feel those eyes following you, judging you, but my brain seemed to have a mind of its own. It created these fantasies, these things my brain deems correct when it could rationally never be. It was a battle between my mind and my rational brain. But the voices in my darkening mind were drowning out any peeps my brain tried to mutter.
I wanted so badly to lean into the idea that the people in the pictures were nothing more than just images printed on paper, but the only thing my mind would believe is that they looked far too real. The eyes seemed to meet yours no matter where you stood from them. Left, right, center. Always following. Always knowing.
There's something I remember reading once. I did read it, right? Even now my mind is slipping, confusing memories for ones that might have been. Nevertheless, I remember learning that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. And pictures were considered to be from the camera taking a piece of your soul. With this combined, it's only rational to believe that those eyes in all those pictures have some semblance of life, right?
I knew this to be true, though now the line between fantasy and reality were blurring for me. I tried to ground myself by touching something, smelling the air, listening to the outside world. All of this didn't help much. If anything it made me feel a bit lightheaded. I needed to sit down. It felt like my head was being squished between two heavy pillows and I needed relief.
I looked to the pictures, the cursed eyes, for some kind of help, some kind of mercy, but there was none to be found. I was their helpless victim, my mind melting for their entertainment. The smiles on their faces mocked me like they knew what they were doing to me and loved every bit of it.
I could hear them laughing. All laughing at me as my world started twisting and morphing like I was on a drug trip. The laughter from one voice turned to two, then three, until the sound of a crowd laughing maniacally echoed through my skull, my head throbbing in pain.
I felt myself slipping, my world collapsing in on itself. It was surreal. Flashes of black, then white, then black, then yellow, then red. All flashes like fireworks lighting up a dark room. The eyes still peering in through the darkness. The laughter still echoing through the walls. Growing louder, more vengeful. Until everything faded to black and every sound overtaken by a ringing noise that only seemed to grow to a deafening volume. I collapsed.
Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Eyes in pictures, eyes on TV, eyes in my head. I could feel the paranoia creeping in again like an unwelcome friend who made my insides itch with a single mention of their name. I paced rather frantically around my apartment, my eye catching on every picture frame, every book cover, every poster on the walls. Each of them with people in them. Each with eyes that seemed to follow my every step.
I felt like I was going mad. Like my mind was being consumed by a black ink before melting away any ounce of sanity I had left. I knew it wasn't right to feel those eyes following you, judging you, but my brain seemed to have a mind of its own. It created these fantasies, these things my brain deems correct when it could rationally never be. It was a battle between my mind and my rational brain. But the voices in my darkening mind were drowning out any peeps my brain tried to mutter.
I wanted so badly to lean into the idea that the people in the pictures were nothing more than just images printed on paper, but the only thing my mind would believe is that they looked far too real. The eyes seemed to meet yours no matter where you stood from them. Left, right, center. Always following. Always knowing.
There's something I remember reading once. I did read it, right? Even now my mind is slipping, confusing memories for ones that might have been. Nevertheless, I remember learning that the eyes are the gateway to the soul. And pictures were considered to be from the camera taking a piece of your soul. With this combined, it's only rational to believe that those eyes in all those pictures have some semblance of life, right?
I knew this to be true, though now the line between fantasy and reality were blurring for me. I tried to ground myself by touching something, smelling the air, listening to the outside world. All of this didn't help much. If anything it made me feel a bit lightheaded. I needed to sit down. It felt like my head was being squished between two heavy pillows and I needed relief.
I looked to the pictures, the cursed eyes, for some kind of help, some kind of mercy, but there was none to be found. I was their helpless victim, my mind melting for their entertainment. The smiles on their faces mocked me like they knew what they were doing to me and loved every bit of it.
I could hear them laughing. All laughing at me as my world started twisting and morphing like I was on a drug trip. The laughter from one voice turned to two, then three, until the sound of a crowd laughing maniacally echoed through my skull, my head throbbing in pain.
I felt myself slipping, my world collapsing in on itself. It was surreal. Flashes of black, then white, then black, then yellow, then red. All flashes like fireworks lighting up a dark room. The eyes still peering in through the darkness. The laughter still echoing through the walls. Growing louder, more vengeful. Until everything faded to black and every sound overtaken by a ringing noise that only seemed to grow to a deafening volume. I collapsed.
***
I woke up in a room. This one was not my own. The walls were grey and bare. Looking around, I saw a closed metal door before me. The bed I lay in was a basic metal frame with a generic and slightly uncomfortable mattress. Where was I?
I tried to stand by I was pulled back by my arms. Was I handcuffed to the bed-frame?
There was a knock at the door before it opened. A man crept in. He wore a white jacket, a clipboard clutched in his hands like he was cradling a baby. He looked at me in curiosity.
"Good evening, Benjamin," he said. His British accent threw me off a bit. "Do you know why you're here?"
I shook my head. "I don't," I replied softly, my voice coming out low and almost restrained.
"That makes sense," he said, glancing down at his clipboard. "It says here that you had a bit of a manic episode. Do you remember any of it?"
I tried thinking back but it was all a blur of paranoia and eyes or something. I was so out of it that my rational brain couldn't conjure the slightest idea what was going through my head back then. I spiraled to an unfamiliar place.
"You caused quite a commotion. Your neighbors heard you screaming and thrashing around and they called the emergency number to get you here. Someplace safe," he explained. "It says here that when you were found, you were clutching a knife. You were aiming it toward your eyes before they restrained you. Does any of this ring a bell?"
I looked at him in shock. Was I really trying to mutilate myself? I shook my head quickly, trying to make sense of any of this.
"And after they got you safely out, they looked around your apartment," he went on. "They said the eyes were clumsily cut out from every picture and poster you had hanging around. Let me ask you something... did it feel good to descend into madness?"
I audibly gasped as I heard those cold words escape his lips.
"It was sure fun to watch..."
I tried to stand by I was pulled back by my arms. Was I handcuffed to the bed-frame?
There was a knock at the door before it opened. A man crept in. He wore a white jacket, a clipboard clutched in his hands like he was cradling a baby. He looked at me in curiosity.
"Good evening, Benjamin," he said. His British accent threw me off a bit. "Do you know why you're here?"
I shook my head. "I don't," I replied softly, my voice coming out low and almost restrained.
"That makes sense," he said, glancing down at his clipboard. "It says here that you had a bit of a manic episode. Do you remember any of it?"
I tried thinking back but it was all a blur of paranoia and eyes or something. I was so out of it that my rational brain couldn't conjure the slightest idea what was going through my head back then. I spiraled to an unfamiliar place.
"You caused quite a commotion. Your neighbors heard you screaming and thrashing around and they called the emergency number to get you here. Someplace safe," he explained. "It says here that when you were found, you were clutching a knife. You were aiming it toward your eyes before they restrained you. Does any of this ring a bell?"
I looked at him in shock. Was I really trying to mutilate myself? I shook my head quickly, trying to make sense of any of this.
"And after they got you safely out, they looked around your apartment," he went on. "They said the eyes were clumsily cut out from every picture and poster you had hanging around. Let me ask you something... did it feel good to descend into madness?"
I audibly gasped as I heard those cold words escape his lips.
"It was sure fun to watch..."
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