'Till death do us part

The Blinding Drawings

Ruben had always been the towns, peculiar child. The townsfolk whispered about his strange behaviors, the way he seemed to detach from reality, and the unsettling drawings he created in his sketchbook. But to his mother, Clara, he was just her sweet, innocence boy, misunderstood and sensitive. She defended him fiercely, even when others urged her to seek help.

Their home was a small, creaky house on the edge of the forest, secluded from the rest of the town. Clara had inherited it from her grandmother, a reclusive woman known for her herbal remedies and cryptic tales. The house had an air of mystery, filled with the scent of dried herbs and old wood, with shadows that seemed to dance on their own.

One chilly autumn evening, Clara sat by the fireplace, embroidering a new pattern while Ruben was engrossed in one of his drawings. The room was silent except for the crackling fire and the soft scratching of his pencil. She glanced over at him, his face illuminated by the firelight, eyes intense and focused. A shiver ran down her spine, but she quickly dismissed it, blaming the cold draft that always found its way in.

“Ruben, dear, would you like some hot cocoa?” she asked, her voice gentle.

He looked up, his eyes locking onto hers. There was something different in his gaze, something she couldn’t quite place. It was as if he was seeing through her, beyond her.

“No, thank you, Mother,” he replied, his voice calm and steady.

As the night deepened, Clara felt a growing unease. She tried to shake it off, focusing on her embroidery, but her hands trembled. The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows darker. Ruben continued to draw, his pencil moving faster, the lines more frantic.

“Ruben, why don’t we call it a night? It’s getting late,” Clara suggested, trying to keep her voice from wavering.

Ruben didn’t respond immediately. He finished his drawing and slowly lifted his head. His eyes, usually a soft brown, seemed darker, almost black in the dim light.

“I’m not tired, Mother. I want to show you something,” he said, his voice low.

Clara hesitated but nodded, setting aside her embroidery. Ruben stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. He handed her his sketchbook, his fingers brushing against hers. His touch was cold, almost icy.

She looked down at the drawing, her heart pounding. It was a picture of a woman, her face twisted in pain, her eyes wide and empty. The detail was astonishing, every line meticulously crafted. But what struck her the most was the resemblance. The woman in the drawing was her.

“Ruben, this… this is very detailed,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you like it, Mother?” he asked, his tone strange, almost eager.

Clara swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “It’s… impressive. But why did you draw me like this?”

Ruben’s smile widened, and he stepped closer. “Because it’s what I see. What I will see.”

Before Clara could react, Ruben’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. She gasped, trying to pull away, but his grip was ironclad. His other hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, sharp knife.

“Ruben, what are you doing?” she cried, panic rising.

“Shh, Mother. It’s time to see,” he whispered, his voice chillingly calm.

In a swift, horrifying motion, Ruben brought the knife to her eye. Clara screamed, the pain blinding, as he cut into her flesh. Blood poured down her face, and she thrashed, but he held her down with an almost inhuman strength.

With meticulous precision, Ruben removed her eye, the world around Clara becoming a blur of agony. He held the eye in his hand, staring at it with a strange fascination. Then, without hesitation, he brought it to his mouth and bit into it.

Clara’s screams echoed through the house, but no one was there to hear. The pain was unbearable, her vision reduced to a nightmarish haze. She tried to fight, to escape, but her strength was fading.

Ruben moved to her other eye, repeating the gruesome process. Her screams grew weaker, her body convulsing in agony. He consumed her second eye, his face smeared with blood, his expression one of pure ecstasy.

As darkness enveloped her, Clara’s last thoughts were of the boy she had loved and protected, now a monstrous figure beyond her understanding. The house, with its secrets and shadows, stood silent witness to the unspeakable horror, as the fire crackled on, indifferent to the tragedy unfolding before it.