His Omniscient Eyes


Letters—like people—don’t come to me voluntarily; they must be summoned. This is truly my biggest obstacle: people have never desired to be in my presence. Everything I have came to me because I took it.

I am writing this because my conscience needs a large burden to be lifted, but somehow I also feel in my heart that this confession is more an account of my accomplishments than it is a confession of guilt. At this point, it doesn’t really matter. I want to do this; I know this is what I want. This letter of confession is—in part—directed towards the people who aren’t ignorant enough yet. To the enlightened ones, the erudite beings who know too much. I hope you can learn from my simplicity.

I remember when it first happened. I was an adolescent with an impure and vulnerable soul. My mother told me I had done something shameful. She said the world would never look at me the same way for as long as I lived…so she sent me away. I was crumpled in the corner of a square room with no windows, no shades, and no ornaments—just darkness. The soles of my feet sunk into the concrete like quicksand, my eyes were illuminated by the unbiased darkness, and for the first time in my life, I actually understood who I was. The clarity I had longed for finally came true, but it did nothing but hurt. In the midst of the darkness, I saw my reflection staring back at me, and I knew I wasn’t alone. I would forever be judged not only by the world’s unmerciful eyes but by my own. From then on, I was helpless—nobody would ever understand what I was going through, what was wrong with me. My whole body went numb, and I felt something latching on to me. It didn’t feel like a person—or anything physical for that matter—just some thing grabbing hold of me. I remember how the companionship of my consciousness only made me feel more alone. But then something interesting happened: I began to feel content with my newfound understanding of lonesomeness and her attributes. My new companion had latched on to me and was never letting go. So I began to hide myself from the world. I guess it was my way of embracing my demons. The battle for my soul was one that required the help of many caring people, but I was still undoubtedly and permanently alone. I wish I could explain better what I was going through, but it…

My troubles started the first time I met Harry. Even though I so desperately tried to suppress the truth, I knew it from the first second I met him. The way he looked at it made me cringe to my very soul, and I could not help but feel grotesque disgust towards him; he made feel repulsive. I don’t know how, but he was able to see through me so clearly, it was as if I were naked. My sin was not hidden in his presence—it was as if he had eyes like a god.

How was it possible that he could see me for what I was? We only spoke for a few minutes, but that short time was the most vulnerable I have ever felt. It wasn’t his to look at. Then why, pray tell, did he decide to stare and cringe at the first sight of me? A glimpse into my past was all it took, and our conversation came to an abrupt stop. It is truly impossible to have a conversation with another person when you feel as naked as a newborn.

Harry. I have always hated that name. With his yellow hair and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. He was beautiful, and with every beat of his heart, I sunk deeper and deeper into myself. His singing voice! Mellifluous words flowed out of his mouth and into my ears. I hated that boy’s cherry voice, and I couldn’t wait to end him. People gravitated towards his magnetic pull. I am ashamed to say that I too fell victim to that pull once.

It was a cold, wintry night. He was fiddling with some object outside the school library. It was one of the coldest nights I can remember during my time at Princeton. Now that I think about that dark night—the petals of snow dropping slowly and smoothly from the ominous clouds—it seems as if a higher power was sending me an ironic message of fatality. That night was when I first noticed his ability to see what I had been trying to keep hidden from the eyes of the judgmental world my whole life. It made me angry, and soon my anger turned into unimaginable hatred.

“Hi. It’s freezing out. What are you doing out here?”

He didn’t respond quickly enough—maybe he didn’t hear me. I asked him again what he was doing, and again he didn’t respond. Was that object so engrossing that he couldn’t bear a second to explain the oddity of his situation? With every passing second of silence, my resentment grew larger and larger.

“Your name is Harry, right?” I moved closer to him so he would feel compelled to answer. I felt sweat dripping from the hairs on my neck and running down my back.

“Is it just me, or is it supposed to be springtime? It’s April, isn’t it?” he asked.

I knew he was avoiding my question, so I asked him again what he was doing—this time with more angst: “What is so important that it requires your attention so late at night?”

“Oh, this?” He shrugged. “Just a small surprise I’ve got planned for this girl.”

“Who’s the girl?”

“Her name is Violet. I don’t know her last name, but I’m hoping after tomorrow I will.” He started to talk with a sense of purpose. “She’s beautiful in every way, and I fell in love with her the first second I laid my eyes on her. You see, it’s a talent I take pride in: I can see a person for who they are. That’s why I love her. Yesterday she walked by me, and I stopped in awe. It wasn’t so much her beauty but her complexity. I am a curious man, and her confounding vanity caught my eye; it seems as though she still has control over it. Anyway, I know I love her, and she is going to love me back. She has—.”

It was then—right then—that he noticed it. For a second it seemed as if he was in awe, but that awe quickly turned into revulsion. I was just as surprised as he was. Nobody, not my father (may he rest in peace), not my mother, nor any of my closest confidants have ever had the capability of seeing it. In this moment of awkward disbelief and silence, a feeling of dread seeped into my bones. What if he told his friends what he had seen? I would be ostracized from our community and ruled an outcast for the whole world to mock and ridicule. My biggest fear was realized. I needed to do something.

After more than a month of stewing in my own fear and guilt, I decided that I couldn’t bear the feeling of someone else inside my body, so I ruined him. I’ll admit it. Does that make me a bad person? If so, then I am no worse than any other man who felt the sudden impulse to protect what was rightfully his. The truth, my truth, is mine and mine alone. Nobody else should understand something about my life that I don’t want him to. Isn’t that one of the foundations of humanity and the society we live in? The truth is ours to dictate, and we can dictate it however we choose. Why then did he try to dictate my truth? Just one glimpse, and he was already trying to understand what was not his to understand. After I got over the shock of his overbearing eyes, I knew what I needed to do.

They say that confession is the key to freeing one’s soul. I don’t know about any of that philosophical rambling, and I don’t yet feel free. To be locked forever in the cage of one’s own mental fortitude is a punishment I would not wish upon any man. Just because no state facility has put me in a cage does not mean that I am not incarcerated.

When we met again, he was with that girl Violet. Oh, how I hated him. But I was so determined to keep my secret concealed that I approached him under the guise of a friend. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get him away from her, so I decided to invite them both back to my apartment. It was his fault that she died. He didn’t need to bring her. I only wanted him, but he just had to boast his amazing prize. Well, I’m sure he regrets his arrogance now.

Don’t you regret it? I ask his limp body, but it doesn’t answer. You killed your girlfriend. I didn’t want her; I wanted you. How did you see it? Why? Stop looking at it! Even after I've gouged out your eyes, the holes that I inscribed into your head stare back and pierce my very being. What do you see? Did you tell anyone? You’re no better than I, with your fancy voice and your fancy girl. Let me tell you something: I’m the one whose heart still beats. You disgust me, lying there on the floor like a whore after she’s been used.

Even with his head smashed, with barely any body parts left to call his own, his stare presides. His blood on the floor flows like my red, hot weakness… The anxiety I felt during the years after the incident returns. His mangled corpse begs for my contrition, but I don’t regret ridding myself of his persistent stare. Though with the loss of his life, a part of me journeys with him to the abyss. Even after the cold hand of death has grabbed his immortal soul, he can still see me for what I am. Maybe I am fool. Maybe everyone could see the whole time. After all, light shines brightest on the darkest souls. I can still feel his curious stare choking me with guilt. What I did…who I am…the very idea of my purpose in this life, forever lost the night I met Harry.

So, that’s the reason I did it. Now you can understand. Well, to the extent that anyone really can understand. It is my burden to bear, and to this day I haven’t met anyone who has the same curse that I do. Thus, in order to truly explain myself, I have chosen the path of the pen; if confessions can free, then after today I will turn into an eagle, spread my wings, and fly away.

We journey through life like we understand, but nobody truly understands. The map we blindly follow, that thing that we call “destiny,” is just one more term that mankind uses to console our shame of being in absolute control of where life leads next. When people come to terms with the irrevocable fact that they are who they are, humans will finally be free. I did this to myself. There was no predetermined plan that put me where I am today; there was only me.

Tomorrow is another day for most people, but for me there will be no tomorrow. My time on earth has come to an end. Drugs no longer have any effect on me, there is no way to relive the effects of my curse. Maybe death will free my soul. I hope so. I hope it’s the last stop for me on this arduous journey toward forgetfulness. As I sign this letter of confession, I want to make something clear: the only necessity in life is clarity. And for me, death is clarity.

Sincerely,

Tom The Brave