Watched

Original short story — January, 2023

(Graphic by Sofia Ritz)

TW: Body Horror

12:04 a.m.

I wake to muscle spasms in my thigh and heat pulsing through my leg. Stabbing pains pinch through the knee, and I wince through the discomfort of scooting myself upright. Guess the nerve block wore off. My last dose was at eight so I shuffle a couple more oxycodone into my palm and toss them to the back of my throat, draining the last of my water bottle. I dread the half hour it’ll take to feel any relief. The smacking of drops against the window distracts me momentarily while I extract a couple sharp white feathers from my pillow and watch them twirl onto the carpet. A slightly deeper sound pounds through the rain, footsteps? I scan through the lines of my half-drawn blinds and see only the gray of the storm. Bea will be okay, she’s driven through worse.

My knee is a hot punchy swirl of throbbing fucking shit. The Ace wrap pulls against my leg, and I can see the puff of skin around, where the limb is inflated. I scratch at the red divot under the fabric, and the new rawness is a welcome difference to the lava underneath. It needs to breathe. I click at the bands of my brace and slowly roll back the bandage, then lay my cool, clammy palms over the sides of the joint. Blood throbs beneath my hands, a heartbeat. Finally exposed, a translucent orange fluid drains from the center of my incision, lifting the tape otherwise glued to my leg. Great, irritated already not even 24 hours post-op. I lay back on the cushions of my couch and stare at the dead phone on the floor.

The couch seemed like a good idea, less steps to the bathroom and kitchen, but now of course I left my charger by the bedside, and moving this appendage is unthinkable. I know sleep is my only escape, so I hug the pillows to my chest and tilt my chin up to watch the storm, until the screaming of rain against the roof lulls me into a strange dream.

I am fairly certain that there is someone looking through my window. I can’t make out a shadow, or any kind of figure or movement through the fierce sheet of rain, but with each turn of my head and shift of my weight I am sure I feel eyes on skin.

1:36 a.m.

There is an eye in my knee. A fucking eyeball, inside my knee. I know I'm woozy from the meds but I can feel it from the inside, twitching and blinking and swiveling in its new socket. It burns. I pinch my nose and try to inhale like I remember hearing online, but I can’t, so I’m not dreaming. And I can’t call anyone.

I hold my ankle and pull to lift it, to see if any movement is possible, if I can get to that charger since the pain has dulled, but I’m so weak. And tired. And the discomfort is swelling through my whole body, I can’t. I see Bea, miles and miles away, the same rain pounding at my roof clouding her windshield, blurring lane lines...I blink hard against the thought.

I squeeze and twist the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck, staring back and forth between the window, still looming and observant, and my knee, peeking up at me through popped stitches and wet tape. I lie back rigidly, choosing to avoid eye contact. I pick at the dry skin around my thumbs. I hold them up to my teeth and chew. When I close my eyes I see a double circle, churning and seething in the black.

3:12 a.m.

The hands on my watch tick on, my single feeble link to the outside world. It’s still there. I’ve accepted that I’m likely seeing things, because eyes don’t just sprout out of incisions; but finding it there, again, after falling back in and out of sleep, doesn’t corroborate this theory. I heave myself back up and take deep, slow breaths against the resurfacing ache. It winks up at me, mockingly. I hover my hand over the opening and tap—it flutters and scrunches up in response. A thin line of liquid wells in the folds of skin tucked around it.

(Gif by Sofia Ritz)

Tears. I pull at the sleeve of my sweatshirt and dab at the corners where they’ve pooled, almost sorry for it. Begging the question... is it, me? It’s a part of me, evidently. Did I make it? I know these thoughts are useless, since this isn’t real, but I think them nonetheless.

When it’s seemingly recovered I run my fingertip over the stiff black lashes, very unlike the soft, thin ones attached to my original eyes. Original eyes, what a concept. They remind me of my leg hairs in the winter. I suppose that’s what they are. The iris is red, I'm just now processing. When I peer closer I see that the color swims, like plasma. Again, the double feeling of eyes both behind and in front of me. What I can see of the window’s still gray, save for a burst of lightning after I turn away. It’s followed by a low grumble of thunder that brings to mind my empty stomach, full bladder, parched tongue. All urges I can’t fulfill, lest my leg burn up to nothingness.

I touch the lashline and press, pushing the lid down over its surface. I feel the odd force of my own finger against the eye, an acute pressure as I try to hold it closed, to keep it from watching me. It tenses for a while, willing itself open, but eventually eases and rests under my hold. I lean back, stretching my shoulders into the pillows before glancing downward to see the sliver of red returning my gaze.

It almost seems to be looking through me, or... behind? When I turn I see a thin silhouette, casting shadow upon the center of my blinds. We stay like that for a while, watching one another, and I wonder if I am losing my mind. Then sirens begin to wail gently in the distance, and the profile’s gone.

I sit up and snatch the wrap from where it’s nestled between the cushions and re-mummify the wound, careful to pull the lid shut before winding the cloth tight on top. This time when I lie down I know it can’t see me, but I feel its desperate darts up and around, pivoting and fluttering under the bind. The material scratches at my cornea as it blinks. Even with this eye blocked off, the sensation of being perceived never wanes, but I force it out of my mind and bury my face in the cushions, attempting to ease the tension in my body with my breath.

4:58 a.m.

I don’t need to open the wrap to know, I can see the shape of its lid batting against the bandage. I dry-swallow two more tablets, gulping at droplets of saliva in an attempt to get them down. They scratch and linger in my throat.

I refuse to gratify the sick piece of me that keeps imagining eyes with a check of the window, and lean over to unwrap the bandage once more. If it’s not real, then I can’t hurt it, right? I yank a pointed feather from where it stabs at my spine, and hold it up to examine the stem. This will do nicely.

I pinch at the leg hair lashes, prying the lid up away from my eye. I transfer the grip to my left hand and grab a fistful of sweatshirt, stuffing it into my mouth. Then I pick up the feather from where I left it laying, expectant, on my thigh. The needle-like tip pierces the skin along my lashline, and I bite down hard. I punch a row of holes, trying to line them up as best I can with their adjacent popped stitches. It’s bleeding a lot now, mixing with the tears and dripping out the sides in quick, thin streams. I cram the dull, red feather in between the couch cushions, where I can forget about it later. Deep breath. Time for the hard part. I peel my lid up with one hand and push each stitch through its matching hole with the other. As I concentrate my jaw slacks and the cloth spills out, damp on my stomach. The lid puckers against my work, but I hand suture each and every thread, and wait and watch to ensure it’s closed for good. Then my head rolls back and I’m out in seconds.

9:31 a.m.

“I was just so worried, to think he was right across the street, and you, all alone? And then you wouldn’t answer your phone, Lily you could’ve been kill-”

“Shhh, doctor’s coming.”

“So, your stitches popped. Right off the bat, which usually doesn’t happen without a little help.” She gives me that eyebrow up, ‘so you’re a picker, huh?’ look. “But nothing we can’t fix. I’m going to pack the wound with some gauze and Dakin’s solution, and I’ll see you back here in a couple days. Sound good?”

I zone out while she stuffs the tear with white, and I just stare when she leaves the room and the center of the eye pools with red.

(Gif by Sofia Ritz)