Within the Eye

Chapter 1

As soon as I saw his face, hatred bubbled to the surface of my consciousness first before his name could even come to mind.

His face was symmetrical, painfully so. His lashes were dark and thick, each blink had them lightly brushing over tastefully defined cheekbones and a straight bridged nose that could have put the finest sculptor to shame. His eyes of a glacier-cold blue, streaked with ribbons of obsidian beheld me. It was in his eyes that I saw myself, and it was like the first time I ever had.

It was like I was a copy of him, but less... pale. He reached out to touch me, his hand cupping the side of my face tenderly. The distinction became clearer. Where he was cold, I was warm.

His skin was like marble against the topaz warmth of my skin, his icy eyes fixed on the amber of my eyes. He sat beside me on an uneven wooden chair, chipped and cracked at angles that suggested its participation in a history of violence or a hard life. The room we were in had also likely seen better days, its walls dirty and stained, a door lightly tapped against its frame held on by one hinge and the only window in the room was closed but the glass was long since smashed. Outside was a rumbling grey sky, no sun to be seen. A lone bulb flickered half-heartedly in and out of life, providing a functional but unreliable luminescence. The cot I was on was even lower than the chair beside it. The cot creaked as he leaned closer to me.

A few strands of hair came loose from his sleek styling, like a ruffled snowy owl and I instinctively reached up to brush it back.

"Praxys."

His name came from my lips, whispered and unbidden. Nary a moment had I thought it than it had been said.

From his lips came mine, whispered and aching.

"Pandora."

If my eyes could have opened any wider, they would have just to drink in the sight of him like I was in a desert dying of thirst and he the only poisoned oasis for leagues. My eyes did widen, and that's when I saw it.

A little red leather-bound book rested innocently on a makeshift table beside my cot. Its fore-edge had scattered tears and ink blots, no longer resting completely flat when closed. Although the red had dulled from continued use, I was drawn to it like an insistent tug.

In black ink that chipped away in corners on the journal's front face read: "Pandora's Diary." For such a decrepit book, the clarity it brought me from a single glance was dizzying. 

It was as though Praxys and I shared the same thought in that split moment because the only time his gaze was taken away from me was when our eyes had flickered to that little red book and then back to each other.

He moved first, a step ahead of me as frustratingly always. My vengeful hands grasped at empty air, not the pale column of his throat, entrapped by his firm grip as I thrashed against him, my body weak.

The door to the room burst open as a young man entered, his black hair cropped close at the sides and his teeth flashing like his eyes as he barked at Praxys. "I told you not to come in here until I sedate her." 

"Shut up, Millie," Praxys snapped, subtly moving to block me from the man's view. "Remember who dragged your sorry ass out from under the burning rubble, and try speaking that way to her again."

The man, 'Millie', rolled his eyes and muttered angrily under his breath to himself as he ripped out a fresh syringe and tore the cap off a bottle, his movements fluid and well-practised.

I hated Praxys, this I knew, but I hated the fear in my face that his eyes reflected back at me. Most of all, I wanted to hate the conflicting emotions on his face as he tried to wrap me in his embrace and soothe me, as I railed futilely against him, gasping and trying to escape not only him but the other man with the syringe.

"Pan," Praxys murmured soothingly into my brown hair, tucking my head under his chin. 

I should only remember him this way - the warmth of his embrace enough to halt me from spiralling into the darkest depths only my imagination could ever evoke. Now, his touch only sparked a seething fire in my veins, reminding me of everything I'd lost. 

His black button-up shirt was soft under my cheek, and if not for my preoccupation with trying to stave off a panic attack, I would have tried to savage the likely expensive material with my teeth out of sheer rebellion. Although, that's how I ended up here. "Pan, you're safe. With me. I made a promise... I'd keep you safe." 

I was so focused on his words then, that rumbled through his chest, that I didn't feel the needle prick my skin.