The Weeping Eyes

I watch as a man with a bow tie holds a girl with flames for hair in a vice-like grip. She is shuddering, crying silently into his suit. I point at her, body frozen, stuck in a time limbo. Slowly, the man lowers his eyelids. This is it, I think. I finally get to touch another living thing.

Instead, he closes one eyelid and then the other. Always staring at me. Accusing me of wanting to rip the girl from him. Little did I know that we would both find each other in a graveyard, and we would both be screaming silently for the man to stop to just let go. We might scream for different reasons, but our screams would bring us together.

I yearn to feel the breath of life that I need to survive. My brothers close in on the couple, but I am held in a trap, my otherwise fluid shape stuck in stone, accused by those mournful eyes. Those eyes which are inexplicably old, yet so, so young. The eyes that have looked upon deaths of whole species without blinking, yet turn to fountains over a yellow headed girl.

I see all this and more while I stare, frozen, at the man. My people say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I will never look into the soul of my own. But perhaps that is what enables me to look so far into this ancient one's soul; the suffering and torture I resist as my body is shut into in unbreakable stone.

Finally, finally, he releases me from his tortured gaze and shuffles out the entrance.

The moment he looks away the dam breaks. My true form, my fluid, untouchable being slid forward. And I seek out the touch of another living, breathing organism with the wishes of a dying man. And I am dying. My mind is continually shattering, ripping to pieces and pulling together again, only to be yanked away to the farthest recesses of my mind.

I long to be stone again, if only to be held in the eyes of one whom I can almost touch. I would gladly take the entrapment, the restricting encase meant that won't even allow me to breathe, if I can see someone's eyes again. It is an addiction, and I sacrifice all for it.

My mind's shattered pieces break again, and again, and again, I until it is almost dust. I reach a party of people, and the red girl glances behind and stiffens. And I am caught. The eyes on her. Oh, the eyes. She was lost, and is found.

But there is something buried so deep I doubt even the man with the bow tie would recognize. The longing for her heart to be with her. Her heart that she left without a second thought to follow the beautiful man who held her so tight earlier.

The panic in her eyes mounts to a new height. I see her hatred of my existence welling up. This one has almost as much hatred as the Bow Tie Man. I shudder to think what she could become if pushed far enough. But however far she would be push, she would never break. This girl would soldier on through decades and centuries to get what she needed.

Silent tears roll down her face. Drip drip drip. They fall, out of my line of vision, on the ground. I see her terror of not returning to her home, of her family and her friends and her Love searching through the years to find her when she would never. Come. Home.

And I scream internally, lashing at all I can. My mended mind breaks again, and I watch the sea of anguish in her eyes. And yet I cannot look away. Even if I had a choice. I would rather look into the hatred of her most inner self than starve out on the hope she is better off alone.

So I watch, wishing she could see my tears, as she opens her mouth without moving her lips and calls, "Doctor."