Fred was always a special young man, but in a bad way. He didn't know if it was because the house they had moved into had a history that wasn't pretty at all, he didn't know if it was because his grandparents were always somewhat reserved about their religion for some unknown reason. In the mind of a child, these people were hiding something they didn't want anyone, not even Fred himself, to know. Why? He didn't know, but he suspected it had something to do with his current situation. He guessed many things, delved into few. He didn't have time for that, he had to keep an eye on other things, like keeping his eyes open as much as he could. It began one day in the backyard of his grandparents' house. It was a beautiful day, the sun was caressing Fred's cheeks and the sweet breeze was giving him warm but cool hugs. The leaves on the trees were dancing for him and some frogs were singing melodies only known in his world, but Fred didn't dislike it. His grandfather's radio, turned on in the creaky old porch, made an unbearable noise that cut through the beautiful scene Mother Nature provided. How he hated that thing. But he couldn't ask her grandfather to turn it off. Not if he didn't want to end up with no dinner and a red buttock. Oh, yes, his grandparents were stern with him, but he still loved them and they loved him. The rocking chair was empty, his grandfather had gone to fill his wide glass with cheap whiskey and take a fresh pack of cigarettes. Fred lay on the grass, trying to ignore the noise of the radio, concentrating on the dance of the leaves of that big oak tree. And suddenly, the eclipse came. A shadow covered the sun, a humanoid shadow stretching out its hand in a peculiar way. It seemed to be moving intermittently, as if someone was pausing and unpausing a movie repeatedly just because. Fred turned to the shadow, and it stopped being a shadow. It was a man, a man in his forties. He wore a black jacket and brown jeans, held in place by a wide leather belt with a silver bull buckle. His shoes were dirty, as if he had walked across a muddy plain to get there, on a hill, in the spring. That certainly wouldn't have made Fred uncomfortable, of course not. But it all came unhinged when he looked up into the man's face and discovered a pale, dead, expressionless face. A brown hair covered in grease that gave off a nauseating smell, as if someone had piled up excrement and set fire to that mountain of filth. But that wasn't the worst thing about that man, oh no. What Fred always hated about him were his eyes, those deep-set eyes. All light was reflected in those totally black pearls that did nothing but stare back at him. There was no iris, there was nothing. His eyes were black.
At first he didn't notice it, but as the days went by it became clear. The man loved Fred, why, she didn't know. He had yelled at him, asked him what he wanted from him, what he had done to deserve such torment. But she never got any answer. The man, or whatever it was, just watched him from wherever Fred allowed him to be. Near or far. Meters away or inches away. It didn't matter, it was always there, and it moved forward. It moved forward when Fred wasn't looking, when Fred wasn't alert, when he closed his eyes. The man walked slowly, which was an advantage. When Fred returned home, which was a five-hour drive to his grandparents' house, he could barely sleep. Because he knew that while he was dreaming, that thing was walking slowly but surely towards him. Sleep was a problem, of course it was, but the worst part was the day. The blessed day. When Fred had, had to, it was a damned reflex he'd never disowned, never even noticed, until that came: blinking. When he didn't see for a fraction of a millisecond, the man moved forward, little, but he did. Fred was no fool. If he told anyone about what was going on, they would take him for an imbecile, a madman, and send him to a mental institution. Fred didn't want that, besides he would have no escape if the man kept going. Anxiety, fear, intrigue ate at his brain. Like a cancer that kills slowly. The torment was endless, it seemed endless. Until one fine day, Fred, tired of the situation, decided to take matters into his own hands. His mother had gone to work, as had his father, and they wouldn't be back until after dinnertime, so Fred made a plan. He would sleep for an hour, enough time for it to get as close as he could. And so he did. When Fred awoke, he saw him standing in the doorway of the living room, those black eyes locked on him. The boy watched him, not caring to blink. He walked unhurriedly to his mother's knick-knack cabinet and pulled out of a drawer, a pair of large, huge scissors. He looked at them carefully. He was nervous, he certainly was. But it was the only way. The man didn't care about the strange behavior of his victim, he remained attentive, calm, as if waiting for Fred to get distracted and then, at last, catch him and do God knows what with him.
Then Fred did something that even he could not have imagined. He took, between his thumb and forefinger, his upper right eyelid, carefully stretched it, brought the scissors close and let the metal do its thing. The bleeding began to flow in torrents, the pain was unbearable, but Fred wasn't going to stop. He wouldn't even think of stopping! He had closed his eyes, averted his gaze and now the man was two steps closer. He grabbed his left upper eyelid, and with a shaking SHAC hand, the second eyelid fell. No longer would she let the man advance, no longer would she let him continue to torment her, no longer. He would never blink again.
