He has the blackest pupils I have ever seen.
In my short lifetime, I have seen the eyes of many (along with the emotions of fear swirling within them), but never have I across a pair of eyes like his. The cool, solid white of his eyeball contrasts with the intense, dark, rich red of his iris. Laced with deep mahogany on the inner and outer rim, blood red showing through in random streaks, disappearing into the crimson depths before you can tell if it was really there at all. Then, at the center, are the blackest, deepest, most endless pits imaginable. Darker than the farthest corner of the universe, more infinite than a black hole sucking in everything in sight, more terrifying than the nightmares that hang over your head.
I can feel them on me every second of the day, burning holes into my back. Carefully tracing every movement, searching for some sort of reaction on my face. I know he isn't looking at me. He's looking at my soul. I can feel them chilling my very core.
They're slowly driving me over the edge.
I can't look at him. I fear those black pupils more than anything else. I fear that if I stare into them, I will be looking at death himself. No, I don't fear, I know. He is perfectly aware of what he's doing to me with his eyes. He's enjoying it, too. I can sense his twisted satisfaction when I squirm under his penetrating stare. No one else would be able to read any emotion off his completely dead pan expression. Dead. That's exactly what his pupils are.
I wish I could remain still under his stare. I can't. I have half a mind– no, more than half a mind– to bash my pen into my head or better yet into my eye. I want to tear out all my hair and crack my skull open on the desk and shatter the ink bottle into my throat.
He knows all of this and yet he continues. He is a demon after all.
I swear, they're slowly driving me over the edge.
