A Bag of Eyes

By Russell Jones

He enjoyed their click click. It reminded him of playing marbles at school, or the Newton’s cradle that used to swing on the desk at his old office job. Click click. Motion was a grand thing. He held one in his palm and rubbed it clean, placing a slither of masking tape over the pupil so he could see it more clearly later. They weren’t real, of course, but real enough. They’d bring the life back to the dead, until you realised his trick.

There might have been a link between the dwindling number of visitors he had, and his growing collection. He leaned back in his chair, the wall of eyes gazing down on him. Rabbie didn’t run run run fast enough. Bambi, dear, never made it to his second year. Better to go out with a bang, than a fizzle, the brightest fires burn out fastest. What things they must have seen from those old eyes; an office block must be nothing compared to the scape of a city or an endless vista. He’d taken out the brains, of course, but he liked to think that something remained. Those little memories stick in the head whether you like it or not, you can’t unsee things, even with your eyes removed.

The socket was ready now. He separated the skull, which had been cleaned and shaped, plugging the holes with blue dough. At first he’d been squeamish, but he was surprised how quickly he got used to opening the chest freezer to take out more than a TV dinner. His knives were sharp, his stuffing firm, his hands were those of god.

His ex-colleagues had never understood his hobby. They said it was creepy. It didn’t do him any favours with women either. He brought a girl back once, she pretended to be interested but left without sipping her Nescafe, had to get up early for work she said. Yeh right. But that didn’t matter. People try to fill their lives with legacies that will fail: children, painting, charity. His would last forever.

The doorbell rang before he could finish. He placed the eye back into the bag, folding his knives into their leather wallet.

His ex-colleague huffed. “Charlie, good to see you.” The liar. They shook hands and walked inside. “How have you been?”

“Aye, not bad. Thanks for coming. How’s the old office? Cup of tea?”

“Please.”

He handed over the steaming mug, then sat down at his desk, rolling two large glass eyes in his palm. “So, tell me everything.”

 

2 thoughts on “A Bag of Eyes

  1. Pingback: The event on Friday 6 February | Until Only the Mountain Remains

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