They know, they know, they know. It’s easy to match a face to a name when you’ve stolen advanced technology from the government. And so they know, they know, they know. Running on more adrenaline and fear than I’ve ever known before, I race to the one place meant to be safe. For me. For my identity. For the portion of my life that matters more than anything. For him. He doesn’t know. But they do. They know, they know, they know. I never prepared for this. I should have. Because now my lie will be unraveled and my soul laid bare for repentance. As long as he is safe, nothing else matters. Life is cruel and villains even more so. And they know, they know, they know. Smoke dances across the sky in the distance and I know, I know, I know. Laughter bounces across every surface as I take in the destruction of my life. He lay battered on the cold concrete, and I know, I know, I know. This is the end. The mask comes off and my facade becomes a tattered and bitter tale, the hero who lost. I cradled him in my arms and watched as eyes flickered with confusion and hurt not caused by physical pain before closing. I whispered apologies that fell on deaf ears. And I know, I know, I know. If only they were merely deaf.

It’s an odd feeling, watching as someone is engulfed by fear and paranoia. It’s a terrible feeling knowing they fell victim to the hungry stomach of these beasts entirely. My brother, Jeremiah, is the one I allowed to be swallowed. It started with a slightly concerned comment, “I think someone was watching me while I walked home today.” I only half-listened as he described the skin-crawling sensation of eyes following his every step. “Strange,” I said when he finished his rambling. “I’m sure it’s just your imagination.” Imagination. Isn’t it odd how something that can weave the most beautiful stories can also be as deadly as a knife to the heart? That something so filled with life can destroy it just the same? A curse and a blessing entwined in despicable fate. I think Jeremiah realized shortly after his first few confessions of worry that I thought it was all in his head. After that the only inclination that something was wrong was in his actions. The blinds were always shut, he refused to leave the house unless absolutely necessary, and when he did he frantically scanned the surroundings. For who, or what, exactly I still don’t know. The day he disappeared was quiet. The house lacked its usual feeling of life as I walked to the kitchen for breakfast. It felt emptier than usual. A note on the table soon revealed why. “To my dearest sister, I must leave you. The eyes follow me everywhere and I can’t let them follow me to you. I’m sorry and hopefully one day you can forgive me for this. I love you, Jeremiah” In that moment, I understood what it meant to have dread wash over you like a cruel wave. Jeremiah confided genuine fear to me and I ignored him. And now he’s gone. I called the police shortly after discovering the note and searching the house. A detective that came by examined the note and explained that my brother may be in need of psychological treatment based off of his usage of “eyes” as opposed to a person or group. He considered the possibility of gang affiliation but I denied it because Jeremiah was never one to get involved with those types of crowds. Then again, I never thought he’d leave without warning like this either. They looked for years and never found him to confirm if any of the speculations were true. The case was taken off of the priority list but remained open. My dreams were plagued with nightmarish scenes full of glowing red eyes illuminating the possessed corpse of my brother. Chants rang out in my sleep startling me awake in the early morning hours, “The eyes, the eyes. Watch out for the eyes. They’re coming.” Then one day they stopped in one final scream, “The eyes have been satisfied.” The next day, Jeremiah was found dead on the other side of the world. No one knew how he’d gotten there without a trace. One thing they did know, however, brought paralyzingly fear coursing through my veins. Jeremiah’s eyes had been removed cleanly from their sockets.

The sky is vast A place meant to last To let us watch it’s beauty together It was supposed to be forever An endless sea of lights Unmarred by any blights If only that was true I hadn’t had a clue Shooting stars pierced my chest Left me without rest Danger hidden behind what appeals My fate seals The night never gave me so much pain I stare up at the sky where I’ve been slain The sky full of stars seemed dead and cold A place once so magical hurt to behold.

In a world filled with colour, I see none. Trees said to be red and green are seen by me in varying shades of grey. The sky a pale grey that I’ve been told should be blue. Clouds are perhaps one of the only things that I see in their true shade. It’s strange hearing people talk about their favourite colours when I’ve never known what those colours look like. When I’ve been asked I simply said grey as that seems to be all I see. Grey. People constantly use it to describe dull and boring thing. A depressive shade in the eyes of those who can see colours. And here it is all I’ve ever known. Until one cloudy, grey day. My family was moving. Father had gotten a job near the east coast as a weatherman taking us across the country. The whole way there I watched as grey scenery changed to more grey scenery. I dozed off to soft bumps of the road halfway there. “Ray, look! It’s the ocean!” My mother, an overly excitable woman, had exclaimed. Her shouting roused me from my sleep. As I rubbed my eyes, still in a sleepy daze,I glanced where my Mother was pointing. Every ounce of sleepiness I had disappeared in an instant. “Mom,” I began, shock clear in my wide eyes and quivering voice, “what colour is the ocean?” “It’s blue, honey,” my mother explained, a soft tone in her voice, “and sometimes it’s green as well. It gets darker when the sky is angry with a storm and lighter when the weather is bright.” “Dad, can we stop for a moment?” I asked my father who was driving. “Yeah, I need a break anyway to stretch my legs. We can check out that beach over there.” My father replied, unaware to my shock. As soon as the car was in park, I dashed to the edge of the beach. My parents trailed behind me, likely wondering what reasons I had for rushing forward like I was. Blue. Mother had said the ocean was blue. And right now the ocean most certainly did not look grey, black, or white. Colour had never been a privilege I had. Not once in my life had I seen anything other than a multitude of different greys. Until this day. The ocean isn’t grey. The ocean is blue. And I can see it. The ocean is blue and I can see it. For the first time in my life I can see a colour other than grey. An overwhelming feeling of joy embraced with an odd feeling of grief devoured me. Tears fell freely from my eyes and I made no move to wipe them away as I stared at the ocean. “I can see it,” I whispered to my parents behind me. “It’s so beautiful.” My parents embraced me from either side, tears of their own prickling in the corners of their eyes. “Yes,” my mother said in the same soft tone from earlier, “it is beautiful.” “Blue,” I kept repeating over and over again. “Blue. Blue, blue, blue.” “That’s right, Ray.” My father kissed the top of my head. “The ocean is blue.” The ocean is blue and I can see it.

In the beginning, when the lockdown had been newly implemented, life had been quiet. As the weather began to warm, I began to spend more time outside on my back deck. In the early hours of the morning, I often drink tea and scroll through social media on my laptop. For a while my only company was the birds. On one such occasion, as I sat drinking my tea, I heard the sound of a slamming door. The area was fairly new and not many of the houses had been bought. Looking over the too short fence that separated my house and one other, I saw him. His auburn hair was a mess and his pyjamas were slightly askew. I could see the dark shadows under his eyes from where I sat. Checking my old, leather strapped watch I’d inherited from my father when he passed, I couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped from my dry lips. It was barely passed five in the morning and this guy clearly wasn’t an early bird. Continuing my casual stalking of my neighbour, I witnessed him practically trip over the railing of his deck and fall flat on his face in the muddy ground that hadn’t quite yet grown grass. I was so shocked by the suddenness of this all, I burst into laughter. Purely from shock. Not because he sat up, covered in mud, with the most confused and disgruntled expression I’ve ever seen on anyone in my life. No, definitely not. Upon hearing my laughter, which was not at all quiet, he looked over the fence and made intense, confused eye contact with me. Immediately I tried to cover my laughter with a cough, but then remembered we were in the middle of a pandemic. Instead I sounded more like a mix between a bird, hyena, and bear. When I finally stopped the horrible noise that had come from my vocal cords, we continued to stare at each other. Then a huge, goofy grin spread in the mud cover man’s face. “Hey neighbour!” He got to his feet and walked closer to the fence. “My name’s Fredrick! What’s yours?” Shocked by the sudden change in energy levels it took me a moment to answer. “Uh, I’m Blaine.” Glancing at his still disheveled and muddy appearance I gave him a questioning glance. “Are you alright? That was one heck of a fall. How does one even manage to do something like that?” “I’m fantastic. I actually came out here to meet you since I woke up and saw you from my window. Then the sun blinded me and I fell....” He squinted down at his appearance. “You know, I liked these pyjamas and now there ruined. This sucks!” And I thought I sounded chipper in the mornings. This guy is complaining and still sounds happy. I already love this guy. He has a puppy feel to him and I may own a cat but I’m a sucker for puppy eyes. I think I’ve gained the only neighbour I could ever want. And we’d have plenty of time to get to know each other from across our fence.

If your hand could reach inside my heart, what would you do with it? Would you treat it like glass, fragile and cracked? Or squeeze until it shatters? Maybe you’d cherish it like a gift as I hand my love to you. Feel how it flutters each time my eyes make contact with yours, each time my thoughts wander to you. That happens often, by the way. If you hand could reach inside my heart, what would you do with it? Would you play games with it, tossing my heart from hand to hand until it falls and falls and falls. Leave me to clean up the mess when it splatters on the ground. Perhaps you’d treat it like a delicate flower, allowing my heart to grow and thrive Feeding it the same love and joy it tries to feed you with. If your hand could reach into my heart, what would you do? Would you reach for it at all?

Fate is an odd thing. We are tied to it from birth. A string wrapped around our necks like a leash keeping us in check. The ones holding the other end is the gods we worship and trust dearly. Once, many centuries ago, I had been one of those gods. No longer. I questioned the Fate of gods. Who held our leash? Who decided that we were to be the gods that ruled the world? What would happen if Fate was no more? And to test my hypothesis, I took Fate and wrung it’s neck with the leash it held. I’m the dog that bit it’s owner. Perhaps my Fate was to rid the world of Fate. Even if it meant that I would forever be seen as a rabid dog that needed to be put down. As if I’d let them. Fate held no power over me. The gods are mere players in the game they once thought they controlled. The board was mine now. Fate’s strings were broken. Maybe the gods should be next.

In the silence, there is no silence. Silence is the hum of the fridge as you sit on your couch reading a book. It’s the whisper of the wind as it sweeps by the trees, rustling in the leaves. The scribble of your pencil on paper as you write your thoughts late in the evening. Silence is early mornings with singing birds and tired yawns, the scrape of a chair, clatter of cereal, and slosh of milk. Silence is everywhere but no where at all. Silence is the ringing in your ears and the beat of your heart. It’s the pitter patter of rain on the roof, and the creak of floorboards at midnight that make you freeze. The soft tap of feet on the ground as you walk, and the sniffle of your nose in the heavy cold. Silence is your distorted, gasping breaths as you cry in the night. It’s lonely and oppressive, freeing and welcome. In the silence you hear nothing and yet everything all the same.

It’s funny, how I miss something I’ve never known. Similar to the way people mourn unrequited love. Nothing is between the two people, a one sided tragedy of sorts, yet the thought of what could be creates the feeling of sorrow. Instead, For many years, I lay trapped inside my mind wondering why I’d been cursed of my sight. I’ve heard the sky is blue and the grass is green. I’ve heard of oceans swirling with dark rage and settle with lovely hues of blue and green. People have described the leaves of trees to be vibrant green until Autumn comes, then they turn vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds. How beautiful it must be. In the dark I experience these things differently. It took me a long time to accept the beauty of the world for how I experience it. When I step outside I feel the light breeze or strong wind as it swirls around me. I breathe in the fresh air that differs with every season. I sense a storm in the way the air smells of rain. As I listen to the howling winds and angry thunder I wonder what has the sky angry today. I cannot witness the grand flashes of lightning but I know they’re there. Swimming was scary as a child. The thought of my mother letting go and leaving me to sink into the seemingly bottomless abyss constantly on my mind. Now I feel how the water flows around me, hugs me, guides me in it’s cool arms. The weightlessness of its embrace and the way droplets of water drip down my face, getting caught on my eyelashes. When I’m alone I listen closely to the silence. To the rustling of the leaves and singing of the birds, to the creak of my house and the tick of a clock. I let myself focus on the feeling of the cushioned chair I sit in every morning while sipping tea. The steam wafts onto my face each time I lift the cup, warm and comforting. Walking down the streets can sometimes be overwhelming, people bumping into me and too many noises to easily process. With the help of my dog, Macey, it’s easier. She leads me through crowds and tells me when it’s safe to cross the road. When we get home I pet her fluffy head in thanks for the day. I’m no porcelain doll, even if some everyday things are more difficult for me. Living alone isn’t an impossibility. Once I’m familiar with my living space I become used to the placement of things. I grow a routine. As a teenager I used to fret over how I looked, hearing the other kids my age discussing new trends and makeup. Perhaps I’ve been blessed with the inability to see my appearance. After coming to terms with the fact that I’ll never see my face I focused more on the clothes I wore and how they felt. I embraced being sightless.

Freedom is a funny thing. It’s the wind dancing with my hair and the leaves dancing with the wind. The smell of fresh rain as it falls from the clouds. There is freedom in the little choices you make that don’t hold any huge significance to life. And if I had the choice, I’d fly away with the birds. Birds are the embodiment of freedom. They get to fly when they wish and rest when they get tired. They eat when they find food and make a home in a nice tree using only the materials they gather. They soar above us in a pattern yet that pattern can be broken. They float alone without a worry for what tomorrow brings and what yesterday foretold. I envy birds. So few have freedom like this. We are trapped in a world that doesn’t accept differences as easily. We are stuck in a world where people are treated as investment towards more power and everything is done purely to gain. This is why I wish to fly with the birds. Remember the little things when you feel trapped in society. Don’t forget the sweet choices you make and the freedom that life brings however small it may be. Birds may fly and I wish I did too, but that doesn’t mean we should waste our lives mourning something we can’t have. We need to make it our own, especially in the little things.