Title: Silver
Rating: K
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my thoughts (and sometimes I'm not quite sure they're mine).
Author's Note: This was written during my lunch hour today. It started out as a poem, but then it overpowered me.
Silver
They watch me. One thousand eyes, unblinking and unrelenting, scattered across my world and glaring at me through a hoary haze. Their sight bounces off the mirrors in a reflection of one thousand more pinpricks of silver that dart across the walls of my rooms, but they never venture to my own face. Following one drop of silver as it slides down my arm in the light, my eyes narrow and focus until the dot lengthens and stretches across my hand, and then it has flitted across the air to some other perch where it can watch me and laugh while I forget and hit a stairwell.
They throw me down the stairs. My eyes will meet theirs, and we'll be locked in some proverbial battle of unfaltering wits while I turn the wheels of my chair without breaking contact. The two eyes of gray stay fixed across from me. They move as I move, and when I feel the floor go out from under me I lose the battle. This great game has forced me onto my back defenseless and listless. Lying on my back at the bottom of the staircase with one leg twisted under me and the other tossed across the top of the stairs, I stare up at the ceiling where half of the eyes have taken refuge from my fall. Lying there for hours with nothing to do but stare, five hundred eyes take me on in our never ending war which leaves me as the perpetual failure. I blink, they stare, I stare, they stare, I blink, and they move not an inch to the left. In the mirror at the top of the stairs I can see the wall behind me reflected in it, and a dozen more are staring down at me from there. The silvery sheen cast across me is enough to stop him in his tracks when he finds me in the morning, but he picks me up and puts me in the chair again all while busily ignoring the hoary streaks across his face. They must have been planning this for ages.
When I throw the shoes out into the lake Boq wastes no time in bringing them back to me. Kneeling at my feet, the muddied streaks of light across his face block his lips, and I cannot help but stare. He glances up once, and in that glance there are little flecks of silver deep in his eyes imbedded by the shoes. But of course their age-old plan would extend to him, and Boq would need to persuasion to join the silver streaks that tipped me over the edge.