Eyes

I walked with quick, staccato steps, my shoe heels making a rapid rhythm. I could hear nothing else but irritating tap, tap, tap, tap, which only tells me that obviously, I am frightened. I could hardly see anything save the dull silhouettes of the dreary black buildings and a few faint candle lights. I can barely see the large outline of my mansion and hear the soft rustle of the apple trees standing outside of it. It gave me some relief to know that I was nearly home. Just another alley to cross...

A gush of wind and an aura of threat suddenly engulfed me. Instinctively I closed my eyes and then forced them open again. I first saw a glinting broken dagger, then a pair of sharp golden eyes piercing at me.

I gasped.

“Gimme your wallet.” A voice hissed into my ears. It was the voice of a youth, not a man. I stood stock still, but about to collapse with fear at any moment. The boy waved his weapon slightly, then repeated, “I said, gimme your wallet!”

With trembling hands I cautiously reached down my pant pockets and drew my calf skin wallet. It was the most treasured and expensive wallet I owned, and I was very sure he was going to be pleased by what he caught. The boy took it roughly, and with a hand still encircling my throat, though not tightly, he skilfully flipped it open and ran with his fingers ran through the row of big bills- from biggest to smallest amount. Finally, his fingers stopped at the last bill. He drew it out with two fingers, snapped the wallet shut, and to my utter surprise, shoved it back to my limp hands. I received it wordlessly, and his grip on my neck loosened.

I saw that he only took two dollars.

“Sorry.” He whispered, then as suddenly as he had pounced on me, he was gone.

———

The carriage rattled loudly, too loudly for me to think and calm down. The meeting was due ten minutes and we were still far away. I urged the driver for the hundredth time to speed up, and I was sure I caught his eyes rolling. The horse was almost galloping already. Nervously, I fiddled with my fingers, then to distract myself I took a quick look at the papers I was about to present to Mr. Carlson. My eyes were scanning through them when a tremendous jolt shook me and the carriage.

“Goldingit!” I cursed. “Can’t you drive any safer?”

“But sir you told me to drive fast!”

“Well drive as the speed of light and be careful as a woman for heaven’s sake!” I roared.

Frustrated, I went back to browse through my papers, unwilling to admit I was very much a grumpy, hostile businessman. Finally, after what seemed forever, we reached the big old gray building. I sighed with relief. I had one minute to fly up the two level staircases and I will be right on time. I opened the meeting room with a flourish, just before the clock strikes 7:00 pm. I smiled. Everything is going to work out fine.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I began after clearing my throat and adjusting my necktie, “As you know I am here to give a presentation on the proposal of 15% insurances. I have here a graph showing the exponential amount that starts at 1% of insurance, and could potentially end up...”

As I rattled on and on about insurances and gaining more money, I came to the most important part of the presentation- the statistics of other banks who have experimented with this new idea. I have been terribly proud of my huge effort to gather all the mass information and compile them into one neat row on white paper. But as I glanced at the table where my papers lay in order, I could not find it. Maybe I left it in my suitcase. I fumbled in it, mumbling a short apology, then to my arising panic could not find anything. Suddenly, a fleeting image passed my mind; the jolting of the carriage, my cursing, and a small white shadow like the tip of God’s holy robe.

The paper.

I felt my face grow ashen white as that paper I lost, then my head slowly twisted towards the window. It was raining heavily. I glanced down. People were hurriedly walking with black umbrellas, and the roads were muddy. There was no way I could retrieve my paper and even if I did, I might as well have produced a handful of mud to Mr. Carlson.

Finally, I managed to get my voice back. “I’m sorry. I- the paper is lost. It contained very important numbers concerning the statistical amounts of money that the other banks received.”

Mr. Carlson raised an eyebrow at me. I lowered my gaze, fiddling with my fingers again.

I looked out the window, desperate for something to say, then caught a glimpse of a tall boy handing a certain white paper to the secretary outside the building. I gasped. It was The Paper. How could the boy have it? He must have stolen it, I thought angrily. The secretary soon handed me the paper, and everything went well. Days later, I was told that the boy had not stolen the paper but has caught it as it flew, and returned it to me. I asked for his description, thinking that I may repay him someday. The answer:

He has piercing golden eyes that no one would miss.

———

Not again. But it is real. I shut my eyes tightly, waiting for the bloody slash. My heart raced uncontrollably and perspiration rolled freely down my throbbing forehead. Is this how I will die? I felt the cold slash of the knife close to my neck and knew it was now or never. But it was never. I didn’t slump dead after five seconds. Cautiously, I opened my watery eyes and saw a dark figure punching the murderer to unconsciousness. I gasped, then noticed the police running to me.

“Which one?” They shouted, and without thinking I pointed to the dark figure. He stepped back, ready to run away.

“What no! I didn’t-“

“It’s him!” I screamed, desperate for the situation to be over. The figure knew he wouldn’t be believed. He started running. Faster than any man I saw before.

The gun rang out, and I saw his running figure stagger, then went on. Another shot of the gun. This time, he fell on his knees, clutching his chest, then struggled up again, running, still holding his chest and bowing his head in pain. I winced for him, but I did not feel anything else. He was starting to falter after about five minutes, and soon the guards with horses caught up with him. One of them levelled his gun, aimed, then shot a series of sharp bullets. The boy finally collapsed, and lay still. When I caught up with the guards, I glanced at the dead body. I got down from the carriage and stopped over. Then something glinting caught my eye. I froze, and my heart seemed sucked into a tight vacuum.

Golden eyes.

It cannot be, I thought, and trembling, I kneeled next to the body. The eyes were unseeing and vacant, not piercing as I have first seen. But it was the same boy. I saw a faint light of unfairness glimmering in those dead golden mirrors. My boots were trodding on fresh flowing blood, but I did not care. It was the blood of an innocent person, a boy, and I have killed him. Maybe he isn’t dead, I thought desperately, and my hand, trembling, reached to touch his shoulder. I found my other hand holding the limp, blood covered hand. I lifted that hand, but it fell back, giving no sign of life. I felt for a pulse, anything, that may give the slightest hint of life remaining, but felt nothingness.

Grieve flooded over me like I have never felt before. I hardly knew this tawny-eyed, tall boy, save that he took two dollars when he could have taken hundreds from me, that he saved my job by saving that white paper, that he has protected me from the street rebels when I was helpless and weaponless. And I accused him for being part of those killers.

Why?

A sudden impulse, a sudden cry of anger pumped by adrenaline, and the chase started, ended. Now it was too late. Too late!

Sobbing now, I wrapped my arms around the boy’s cold neck, kneeling on the blood soaked ground, stroking his ruddy brown hair. I heeded not to the calls of the guards to move back, Nor to the approaching footsteps of my wife, asking if I was alright.

I?

No, it is he. But he is dead.

After about an hour of sobbing, vainly hugging any sign of life back, I left that place while the guards dragged the body unto a cart to bury him in the common grave.

“Stop!” I commanded, surprised at my sudden fierce voice. If there was anything worse I could do, it is to let him be thrown into a mass grave and forget about him. I had to pay. I had to suffer.

“Bury him in my orchard.”

Now, every morning, I wake up to the sight of a beautiful Orchard, and in its midst a forlorn grave.

Underneath it are a pair of closed golden eyes

A tall young lean body rotting

And a hidden fiery warm spirit clawing itself from the dust to my reminiscence.