Glass Eyes
A Yami no Matsuei darkfic.
Copyright to Leareth
'Glass eyes see without understanding'
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Papa says that I am beautiful. It is true, of course. I've seen myself in the mirror; pale, porcelain-smooth skin, hair as gold as sunlight curled in soft ringlets that stream down my back. Rosebud lips, large deep blue eyes, what is there not to like about me?
Of course, such beauty must be complemented. Papa does this perfectly. He is forever buying me dresses; frilly, ornate affairs with snowy lace, silk and satin and muslin in all colours of the rainbow, topped off with a matching hat, either a bonnet that frames my face and ties in a large bow beneath my chin, or a simple cap with a ribbon and a feather or two. Everything down to my shoes matches perfectly. I've had so many clothes I've lost track. Papa never lets me wear the same thing for long. Before I tire of my dress, lo and behold, he has a new one. And the best part of our being together comes.
He plays with me.
My hat is the first to go, carefully untangled from my hair and put it away where it will be forgotten. Then my shoes come off, and my stockings. He has to be very mindful with my stockings – it would do no good to tear them, even if I never wear them again. Next, he unclasps my coat, slowly, each button and hook one by one. That is also removed and put away, with all the hundreds of other clothes I have worn once. I pay them no attention, for after that, he holds me still in one hand, and undoes my dress with the other. So intimate, he is. His cool fingers walk down my back, sliding the fabric off my shoulders, bodice and petticoat all, until all is removed and I sit there naked, the air gliding across my bare skin. I don't shiver, though. For a long moment, I sit there, under his eyes and smile. I love this moment. It ends only when he takes hold of me again and reaches for my new clothes, which he dresses me in with all the sensual care he treated me with taking my old ones off.
He spends so much attention and time on me. Just me.
Of course, that's not to say that he doesn't have others. I have seen many come and go before Papa. But none of them are as special to him as I am.
There was a child once, young and fragile, with eyes like emeralds and milk-white flesh. He had a lovely voice. I heard it many times when Papa brought him home. It was high and almost painful, piercing the night air like crystal. Other times his cries were low, damp and choked as Papa played with him. Then one day, I didn't hear his voice. Papa just came out of the dark room where he kept the boy, his white clothes stained red. He was smiling, almost regretful as he cleaned his hands. Then he shrugged, pulled out a box, and came towards me with a brand new dress. I never heard the boy again. But I didn't care. He was gone and I remained. With Papa.
There was a woman once, pretty with long, long hair. Papa brought her home one night when the moon was shining red. She wore a white dress that flowed around her shapely body, but it was dirty. She was dirty. I didn't think her pretty then. But Papa didn't care about what I thought. Instead, he took the woman into the bathroom, and washed her. I watched him slide the soap over her breasts and up her legs. She never responded to this, never smiled at him the way I do. When she was clean, Papa dried her and gave her a dress to wear. He dressed the woman the way he dresses me. I didn't like that.
Later, it turned out that the woman was a bad and ungrateful woman. She didn't like the attention Papa gave her. She would cry and scream and beg, or break glasses and mirrors and try to hurt Papa with the shards. Papa never punished her. He just smiled at her until she fell obediently silent. Sometimes she would hurt herself instead, slashing her wrists or stabbing her neck. She looked even more pretty when stained with blood. Papa let her do that. Then he would make her all better, the way he made me better when I fell down once and broke my leg.
I didn't like that woman. But I didn't have to worry. One day she simply disappeared. She didn't appreciate Papa. I did. And Papa came back to me.
There were many others after her. I watched women come and go, each of them a temptation, their lips inviting my Papa to them. Sometimes he went. I knew he would. But he always promised to come back to me. And he did. The women did not. And I was happy.
There was a young man once. I was not happy.
I remember the night Papa brought him home. I was sitting, as I do, staring at the stars outside the open window of Papa's bedroom, waiting for him. The only light came from the moon. It streaked in from the night and onto the floor, onto the bed, but not onto me. I was wearing a yet another new dress, one that I had been gifted with just that morning. It was red this time, wine-dark and rich in colour. The bodice and skirt were of crushed red velvet trimmed with lace, like blood on snow, which I remember seeing once. I wore a bonnet that swept my golden hair back. It was also red. I was a rose.
Finally, when the clouds were sweeping across the sky, Papa returned. He was carrying the young man in his arms with the greatest of care, the way he carries me. I watched as he gently laid his prize on his bed, and gazed down at him with a satisfied smile. Unlike the others, I remember this one completely. The young man was tall, but not as tall as my Papa, his body lean and strong without being muscular. He had windblown dark hair that fell into his face, inviting someone to brush it back. And his eyes, those I remember above everything else. They were the colour of glowing amethysts, and just as beautiful. I had fancied his eyes as capable of holding purple fire, so expressive were they despite their blank despair. I remember them shining bright with silent tears and pleasure.
I remember hating them.
Papa rubbed his thumb over the young man's lips. The young man simply lay on his back, his black coat spread around him like a shadow, and stared up at my Papa, but I don't think he really saw him. His beautiful eyes were large and glassy, without pupil. Polished purple gemstones. I could see why Papa was fascinated. But I saw no life in them. Not yet. Not until my Papa leaned over and pressed his lips against his for a long, deep moment. Only then, did something seem to flicker in his eyes, something like shock or recognition.
Papa sighed in appreciation.
"Ah, good," he whispered, his lips only a bare millimetre from the other's. "I am so very glad that you are at least conscious."
Papa has the most gorgeous voice, sensual and deep, as if the darkness itself is speaking. But the young man didn't seem to hear it.
"You're as beautiful as ever, Tsuzuki-san," my Papa continued, one hand stroking the young man's hair. "But you never like it when I say that, do you."
I like it when he says it. I like being called beautiful.
But this time he wasn't saying it to me.
I watched, fascinated and yet disturbed, as Papa deftly eased the young man from his long black coat, and laid it carelessly aside. I stared at it. I knew what such an action led to. I've been unclothed in the same fashion so many times, countless times. What was Papa doing? To tell truth, I've never really seen him with those others I know he plays with. The boy with the beautiful cry, the woman who bled herself, I never saw how they pleased Papa. Did Papa make them beautiful like he does me? Or is that something special for I myself alone?
It seemed that this time, with this young man, I would finally find out.
There was a tie knotted loosely around the young man's neck. I watched as Papa worked it free and tossed it away with hungry eyes. Next, he slid a hand into the folds of the man's half-open shirt, undoing the buttons with expert fingers – he has had a lot of practice undoing buttons with me. One by one, down his chest, they all came undone, all the way down to the tails of the shirt tucked into the dark pants. The shirt was parted like the unfolding of a lily, and what Papa saw beneath it made him sigh. Pale, smooth skin, as flawless as mine. I watched Papa trail long fingers up and down the young man's exposed chest in covetous lines. His touch was finger-light – I know, because I have felt it.
I had felt it that very morning.
I watched, my disquiet growing, as Papa pulled the young man's clothes away. The young man provided no resistance, but lay limp in Papa's arms as he was stripped of his modesty, to be no longer a person, but a collection of spare limbs and flesh, beautiful and waiting to be given life. Papa swept the scattered clothing to one side where they were forgotten, and leaned over the naked man on his bed with a soft smile.
The young man stared up at him blankly. What was wrong with him? Didn't he know how wonderful it was to be seen by Papa in this way?
He did not. And yet, despite this, he held Papa's attention like a moth to a flame.
I did not like it.
Papa buried his mouth in the hollow of the young man's neck, a silver-haired animal feeding on some downed prey, pressing more and more forcefully as he kissed his way down the flat stomach and beyond. As he did so, the young man seemed to tremble, his fingers instinctively clutching the cloth of the bed beneath him, though his violet eyes remained unseeing. Then suddenly, when his head was hidden from my sight behind the young man's hips, Papa did something, and the young man gasped.
Papa lifted his head. The smile I knew so well was still there, but it wasn't for me.
"Why, Tsuzuki-san, I do believe you enjoyed that," he said. His visible eye twinkled as he eased himself over the young man, reaching out to loosen the fingers tangled in the bedspread and entwine them with his own. "But we are merely beginning. And it shall only get better."
I did not understand what Papa meant by 'merely beginning'. Intrigued, I continued to watch the scene unfolding before me. Now, I wish that I had closed my eyes – but what good would that wish do for one who cannot even blink?
So I watched, and so I stared. I watched as Papa ran his hands all over the body exposed before him, touching here, caressing there, exploring into places that made the young man tense and moan. I did not turn away when Papa seemed to eat him alive, his mouth and tongue tasting all the sweetness of the young man's flesh from head to toe and everything in between, leaving behind dark bruises that faded in the moonlight. I stared with ever-increasing hostility as the young man's violet eyes, blank orbs with all the appearance of life and none of its fire, grew wide and squeezed shut in unconscious response to everything my Papa did to him. His lips moved, letting out thick whimpers that became muffled whenever Papa slid his fingers or tongue inside, as if he was trying to speak. With every gasp Papa seemed to grow more urgent, his actions more aggressive. And those few times Papa lifted his face from the secret places of the young man's body, I saw an expression of near-bloodthirsty anticipation there that I had never seen before.
Papa has never looked at me like that. Not ever. I was not happy at all. And what made it worse was that the young man who was the focus of his attentions didn't even care.
Didn't he know how badly I wanted to be that special to Papa?
I watched, my shock and outrage rising, as my dear, dear Papa sat astride the young man and lifted his fingers to his own clothes. Never in my entire existence had I seen Papa do this. He pulled the white jacket off his broad shoulders, then undid the buttons of his shirt with one hand. The other trailed up over the inside of the young man's thigh as lightly as the scattering of rose petals. I saw Papa sigh and lick his lips. Suddenly the shirt was discarded with as much thought spared as I give one of my old gowns, and I stared. I kept staring as my Papa divested himself of his pants, leaving him clothed in nothing but the moonlight.
This was my Papa. No longer a white angel or god, but a raw being of flesh and muscle, pulsing with life and power and vigour and physicality. I had never seen him in this way before. Only at that moment when he had brought this strange young man to his bed; this young man, who, in the space of minutes, had already known more of my Papa than I ever have.
I hated him.
Papa took off his glasses and set them aside. He draped himself over the prone, trembling young man, who, being smaller and slighter, was almost lost to my sight save for his face, a mannequin's face that was alive. And alive it was, contorting fluidly as Papa rocked against his body, and constantly changing, almost hypnotizing in its expressiveness. I would have found it beautiful if I didn't know the reason behind such pleasure. As it was, it seemed to taunt me. Completely shameless, every moan and mien the young man made drove my Papa to further depravity right before my eyes.
I was the sole witness to this act. The young man, however, didn't notice my presence, caught up as he was in what was being done to him.
And Papa?
My beloved Papa never even looked at me.
I was not happy.
Clouds drew over the moon again, and the room began to fade as if light was being sucked away. It was difficult to make out the pale form that was my Papa, or the bright glassiness of the young man's eyes. There were merely two bodies moving as one on the bed before me, moving blindly, instinctively, a hand pressing against a hip or an arm embracing a broad back. Then even that was lost to me when the light was gone completely. I could hear the young man's moans, stifled and wordless, a choked and damp counterpoint to the lower and heavier breathing I knew to be that of my Papa. They were frighteningly loud in what was otherwise a complete silence. Every ragged breath and cry seemed to whisper to me, mock me with the fact that I could never know what was taking place in my presence.
I heard one cry like the shattering of glass, and another like an over-bloomed rose falling.
Then everything fell silent for a long, long time.
I remember how life slowly came back to that room. Out of the silence came the faint sound of breathing, or maybe someone's heartbeat, hard and shallow but soon steadying to normalcy. Then the clouds moved on and the moonlight returned, a frightened child peeping through the open window to see if it was safe to come out and play again. It made the sweat on Papa's naked skin glisten. I stared. Then my Papa lifted his face. His silver hair was damp and plastered to his cheek. The smile he was wearing was one I had never seen before. It was dreamy and sated as he reluctantly shifted a little from where he fit so overpoweringly against the young man's body. A smile of one who, at long last, has attained his greatest desire.
I looked at him, the man who had made Papa so happy. Limp and still, pressed into the bed by the weight of my Papa, the fingers of his right hand were clutching tightly at Papa's shoulder. His lovely violet eyes seemed to stare at me, but I could see no thought behind them. They were hopeless and dull. Like glass.
Papa smiled and stroked the young man's cheek. Then he drew away, and, taking his discarded clothes and glasses, exited the room. I could hear the sound of running water. The whole time Papa was gone, the young man neither moved nor spoke, but merely lay where he had been left, naked and cold. I fervently hoped that Papa had forgotten about him. But no. Papa returned shortly, fully dressed. There was a loose robe in his hands. He placed it on the bed and took the young man into his arms.
Then he dressed him. Right before my eyes. Though the robe was simple and white, nowhere near as beautiful as even the plainest of my gowns, Papa treated it as it were made of the finest silk as he drew it over the young man's body. He dressed him with all the sensuality that he has dressed me with, and more. Much more.
Never in my entire existence have I wanted someone to break as badly as I wanted that young man to break. I wanted his limbs to snap. I wanted to rip his skin into tattered shreds. I wanted to see his face shatter like porcelain and his eyes, oh, his eyes, those beautiful, despairing amethyst orbs that held my Papa so, I wanted to stab their light out into a million glass shards.
I hated him.
Why was this young man, this young man who did not even love my Papa, so special?
Why was he more special than me?
Papa finished dressing the young man. He even brushed his hair with his fingers so that it did not look so dishevelled. He has always used a brush with me. Then he sat back to admire his work. The young man sat there listlessly beneath my Papa's eyes and smile. I thought him plain, devoid of colour except for his purple eyes. Papa sighed in appreciation.
Suddenly, he looked at me. As only just realising I was present.
"Were you there the entire time?" he asked. He reached out to pick me up, and carried me in his arms. I was smiling – I'm always smiling just for him – as I stared at the young man, my eyes cool and hard. Papa followed my gaze.
"Isn't he lovely?" he asked. Then he frowned, thoughtful. "No, lovely cannot describe someone who had so much fire." Papa's eyes roved high up the young man's bare leg that was exposed beneath the robe, and his smile grew smug. "He was good. Very, very good."
I glared. Papa chuckled.
"My beautiful Tsuzuki-san."
The young man didn't respond. I could have screamed.
But I didn't.
Papa set me down. He turned his back on me as he gently lifted the young man into his arms. He cradled his head against his shoulder, and kissed his hair as he does with me. The young man merely gazed dully ahead. I stared in shock.
Papa gave me a smile. The one he always gives to me when he's about to go away.
"I have some business to finish." He turned towards the door, careful with his precious burden. "I'll come back soon, my dear. I promise."
And with that, my Papa left. Bringing the young man with him. He left me as he has done so many times; his last words, again, my only comfort.
The bedroom was very empty. The moonlight gradually glided over the floor, over the bed and up the walls, fading as the shadows faded when the sun began to rise. I watched it expressionlessly. What I felt I could not name, but it made the new day spiritless and cold in my eyes. The rich colours of my dress seemed washed out, faded. Already I was sick of it. I wanted a new one. Something simple and white, like the robe Papa had dressed the young man in.
I'm still waiting for my Papa to return. I know he will. He always does. He promised. He'll bring with him a brand new dress. Then the best part of our being together will come.
I am the one who is most special to Papa.
. . . Aren't I?
~ owari ~
Behold, the Void @ http://doki3.net/void/