Hi, this is Erin and this is the beginning of my story. It would mean a lot if you could leave feedback and comment. Maybe even fan me if you like it. Well, happy reading!
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Eyes. That’s the thing I notice about people. Or at least try too. If you ask me any of my friends’ eye colors, I’d be able to tell you. Eyes can tell someone a lot, like if they’re really happy or just saying they are. They tell what a person wants. They tell how they’re feeling. Good actors can manipulate their eyes. Usually that’s if they know how to see the secrets inside them. If a person’s sad, they seem to shrivel up and have a blank look inside them. If someone’s happy, they seem to sparkle. I hate looking into people’s eyes if they’re mad. Those eyes seem to burn mine, they become filled with a fire, one that someone can’t contain. Maybe that’s why I always flinch when people yell. When someone’s mad, they look like a completely different person. The main thing about eye reading is though; it’s not just one feeling in their eyes. You have to look deeper to see what it adds up too. I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes, you don’t want the sum to the problem. That’s what started my mess anyways. It’s kind of a long story; I’ll just start at the beginning I guess.
It all just starts the same. Those eyes. Those flowers. Those words, and oh god that voice. Lies spun so carefully like the threads on a spider’s web. Spun to be unnoticeable and trap unfortunate prey in its tangles before it even becomes aware of its death sentence. Déjà vu isn’t even a feeling I get anymore when I’m in this room because it happens so often. The unforgiving white walls contain no windows. It’s impossible to tell if it’s day or night in here. The cement floor doesn’t help the chill any room gets from being underground. On the door, someone painted a mural of flowers. From tulips to sunflowers, it’s got every flower I know and a lot I don’t know. A mattress lays on a grey steel bed frame to my right. As usual, I hear him. At least I think it’s a him. The cold and calculating voice slips under the door, I can never understand what it’s saying. Chills run down my spine and scatter, and I never know if it’s from the cold or his voice. A scream rips through my throat and my blood freezes to ice as the voice pitches in anger and the door slides open. That’s when I see the eyes. They’re nothing like any eyes I’ve ever seen. A cerulean blue in color, one before a rough storm that screams danger. In them I can definitely see anger, specks of insanity, and a shade of something I’ve never seen before. That shade, it scares me to death. Rage-filled cerulean blue is the last thing I see before succumbing into darkness.
My body is covered in a cold sweat. His nonsense words and angry voice still ring through my ears. Those eyes are imprinted onto my mind. Shaking slightly, I lean over and turn off my alarm, knowing full well I won’t be able to sleep again. This nightmare has been recurring for about a month, it all comes and goes the same. Although, every night those eyes come closer and closer to me. Thank god that it’s only half an hour from when I’d usually wake up. I lay in bed, trying to figure out what feeling matches up to the shade in the eyes. It’s not fear, excitement, happiness, and definitely not sympathy. There was no remorse in those eyes. That’s what scared me.
I get up and throw my brown frizzy hair in a bun. The blond highlights I have from being outside with my friends don’t show when it’s up. Looking in my mirror, I see my eyes look older than the 14 that I am. They’re green, with a few flecks of gold and the edge of my iris are lined in a dark blue-green. Dark denim eyes match the outer circle of my irises, and my light pink crew neck sweater contrasts with it both. Freckles are scattered across the bridge of my neck and overflow onto my cheeks. When I look socially acceptable, I grab my bookbag and leave to walk for school, skipping breakfast as always.
My morning classes, Algebra, Spanish, Study Hall, and Language Arts Plus flew by and luckily Lunch was here. I pretty much sleep through those classes. Two of my three high school classes I take are down, Physical Science to go. The rest of my 8th grade class shuffle into the cafeteria, all of us like a horde of zombies hunting for flesh. My friends, Emily and Cassie, wait in the lunch line for me.
“Wait up Edith!” Emily says and her voice cracks a little during it. Yes, I know. My name is Edith, so is my mom’s and my grandma’s. It’s a family name, and my grandma moved to this sleepy Indiana town from Germany during WW2. I’m personally an atheist, but she’s a die-hard Catholic. She moved because she didn’t agree with the Nazi Party, and was commonly mistaken Jewish by her dark hair and eyes.
“I’m waiting!” I groan back. Hunger and not getting sleep don’t mix well.
“Ready?”
“Yep.” I answer, popping the p
We head over to our usual table. We’re not the popular kids, but we’re definitely not losers. A few of us are misfits. Me, I’m too smart for my own good. I can tell you that strawberries have more Vitamin C than oranges. I can tell you that people suppress painful memories as a coping device. I can tell you what over the counter pills can get someone high. I can tell you the biggest breed of dogs are Great Danes. I can tell you how most people are feeling by their eyes.
“Edith? You there?” Danny asks with his shaggy chocolate hair covering his forehead. His brown eyes have specks of concern and worry lined in them.
“Yeah, I couldn’t really sleep last night.” I shake my head to try to clear the fog in my head. The eyes clear, but some doubt and a little worry lie in them. Everyone says that he likes me, but I just don’t feel the same back usually. It’s confusing; I try to just ignore it all. Little did I know then, but in a week I’d be thinking about it a lot.
“Your phone is ringing.” My friend says and nudges me in the side. I flip it open and see a text. My face shows nothing has changed, but I can tell my green eyes have turned into a rough and stormy sea. It says one thing, and instantly sends me back into that room: “Kleine”.
