The thing is, Nathan has always been captivated by eyes. They are both his favorite and most hated part of the human face. Every emotion that has ever existed flickers across the eyes like a roll of film. There's a theory that when one dies, the eye holds the last image they've seen. And when someone dies, and all emotion finally drains from their eyes, there is only a reflective surface, a mirror wiped clean. He stares into the mirror too long in the morning, rubbing his eyes over and over until they are raw. He wishes he could wipe them clean.
He sees eyes everywhere he goes—in the walls, the ceiling, next to his pillow. They watch him silently, his face reflected in the dark pupils, trapped. Sometimes, they're Rachel's eyes, still wide and swollen with tears as she chokes on her screams. Sometimes, they're Kate's eyes, glazed and panicked as she whispers for help. And sometimes, they're Mark's eyes, narrowed and measuring, like the second hand on a clock.
He sees eyes everywhere he goes—and he carves them out, scratching through the surface until there's only darkness. But even in the darkness, they peer through, whispering all the things he's done to them, all the things he'll do. He screams until the silence rings in his ears and his heartbeat thrums so loudly in his head that nothing else exists. He screams and digs through the holes, the sockets that should hold eyes, but only cradle death and memories that won't stay forgotten.
He hasn't slept for days.
That doesn't mean he hasn't tried, through. He locks himself in his room with his pillow pulled tight over his face, whispering over the whispers. He forgets when the sun rises and when it sets because there is only an eye staring through his window, waiting for him to finally snap and come undone. He finally pulls curtains over them but then they vanish and the eye is back, ever watchful.
He is careful as he walks through the hallways, keeping his own eyes forward, his fists clenched to his sides. His anger is like a pendulum, swinging from one direction to the other, and he doesn't know how to hold it still when the eyes are all watching. They're always watching.
Mark tells him to play it cool. He thinks he is being cool because he hasn't tried to punch a hole through the wall yet. And when that nosy bitch Caulfield tries to butt herself in, he doesn't strangle her either. He has wanted to. He has wanted to dive his fingers through her eye sockets until her hatred and her (pity?) curiosity is nothing but blood on his fingers and silence in his ears. He owns her like he owns everyone else in this school, and he rises to her challenge like fire upon ice. He will destroy her.
"Stay out of it," he hisses, pushing past her as they leave class. She is hot on his heels though, her questions like bullets against his back. He whirls around, inches away from her face, and her eyes widen momentarily before becoming guarded again. He smirks, enjoying that he has broken through her bravado for that one moment. "You don't know anything, Caulfield. So stay the fuck out of it." He catches her gaze, holding it until she blinks, and his smirk grows wider. He steps even closer, his chest now brushing against hers before she stumbles back and walks away.
"You don't scare me, Nathan Prescott," she calls back, but he knows he does and he knows it's better that way.
When he finally falls asleep that night, it's Caulfield's eyes that he sees, blue and wide with their innocence before they shatter before him in bloody shards of glass.
He's jittery in class the next day, more so than usual. His leg won't stop shaking and Victoria grabs hold of his hand when he's started to drum his fingers in front of her for the tenth time. He wrenches it away and glares at her and she glares right back.
"What is your deal?" she whispers, and her eyes soften. "I'm getting worried about you."
He wants to fall into her eyes, embrace her softness, ease the rigidness that crackles in his bones. He looks away, muttering, "too much to think about," and leaves it at that. He doesn't like the pity in her sigh.
His gaze flickers to Caulfield who is fidgeting in her seat and he thinks of his dream as he has for the hundredth time already. He can't help but think she might be next; she is the perfect caricature for Mark's project. He doesn't think he can do this another time.
He rips a piece of paper out of his notebook and scrawls a quick note, which he then balls up and hurls towards her. It bounces off her shoulder and lands on her desk and she whirls around to glare at him. He glares right back, once again keeping her gaze captive till she blinks. She unfolds the note.
After class. We talk.
She turns to him with raised brows and he just stares.
After class he grabs hold of her arm and yanks her into an empty classroom.
"My friends know where I am," she declares, wrenching her arm free.
He laughs and leans against the closed door. Her eyes flicker between him, the door, and back to him. He smiles at her unease.
"So talk," she finally says, climbing onto one of the empty desks. Her hands clench the edge, ready to jump off should he approach her.
The smile falls from his face and he studies her eyes, the blue that is like a waterfall screaming over the edge of a cliff. He can see everything in that blue, including his own eyes reflected back at him. He squirms and looks away. "You," he pauses, and rakes a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her. "You need to stay away from Jefferson. Don't be alone with him. Don't talk alone with him. Don't even fucking look at him."
"Why?" she asks, and her voice is a knife in his chest because it's the one question he can't answer. Not even to himself.
"Just trust me," he says and she scoffs at him. He doesn't blame her. She should have no reason to trust him. But when his eyes swivel back to her questioning glare, the blue that is comfort and determination and everything that is the opposite of what rages in his head night and day, he's at a complete loss for words.
He marches up to her, quick as lightning, and grabs hold of her, yanking her chin to meet his gaze. "Because you will fucking die, that's why the fuck you need to listen." She squirms in his grasp, digging her nails into his skin until he can feel blood seep out. And he jerks her mouth towards his, roughly claiming it with his own for one second, two, before he shoves her away and storms out. Her silence behind him rings in his ears but it's the first time in a long time the eyes don't follow him.
He doesn't know if she will listen. He doesn't know if he should care (he does), but he falls asleep listening to whale songs and there are no voices from the dead whispering all their secrets to him.