Horror 100 Volume 2

Eye Of The Beholder

My fingers itch.  It's as if an electric current, a magnetic charge, thrums through them.  Into the razorblade and back again.  How can one sliver of metal throb with every one of my frustrations, when all I feel is dead inside?  Reflected in the cold face are the eyes of strangers, of friends, of the girls in my class.  I can almost hear their envy echoing through my brain.

I stopped wearing revealing clothing a long time ago, preferring instead baggy jeans and the tattered flannels Father uses for yard work.  I don't wear makeup or jewelry like the other girls, and opt for combat boots over more fashionable kicks.  But it doesn't matter.

I raise a hand to my head and wiggle my digits through the hair I've dyed mouse-brown and shorn with the two inch attachment on the clippers my mom uses to trim Rocky's fur.  My bedroom is silent, eerie.  I reach and flick my finger to turn on my iHome.  Soft sounds of Hard rock fill the void.

I used to be so naïve, unaware of the Drishti, the Evil Eye.  I was eight before I even heard it mentioned.  Mama didn't realize I'd heard her talking to Father while I bounced on my new trampoline.  "The other girl's are so jealous of our Eva! Look at Cara giving her the Evil Eye.  I hope she doesn't get hurt."

Later that day I asked my grandmother what Mama had meant about the Evil Eye.  Bajai explained that back in Nepal, many people believe in the Drishti.  Other people's envious thoughts can cause harm to another, but she refused to say more.  Ever since that day, I've been careful not to draw attention to myself.

Over the last eight years, courtesy of the internet, I've learned a lot about the Evil Eye, but none of the usual precautions have helped ward it off.  When I was ten, I got a new bike for Christmas and Cynthia Keeler from three houses down watched me ride it.  The next day, I fell out of her tree house and broke my arm.  I had been wearing a spot of kohl on each cheek, yet was still hurt by Cynthia's jealousy.

I've finally come to the conclusion that the only course of action left is to make myself unattractive.  My face is too soft, too feminine.  So here I sit, with a blade from my mother's razor.  The longer I stare into my own tiny, warped reflection, the more I wish it were one of my classmates I'm about to cut instead.

Maybe I would cut Stacy Hold with her Barbie-doll hair and vacant brown eyes.  I've seen her staring at my tits.  I would gladly take her A cups over my C's if it would keep girls like her from being envious of my body.  Yes, she would be perfect.

I'm finding a sort of perverse satisfaction in picturing the scene.  I would corner her in the hallway, by her locker, or maybe in the shower after gym.  I can see myself stalking her like Snowball does lizards.  I wait until we're alone, the bell has already rung and when she turns her back I pounce.  I dig my hand into that shiny, blonde ponytail and drag her to the ground where I keep her pinned.

I have the power now.  I'm the one in control and I spit every epithet I know as she cowers and cries for help, for mercy – except there's no mercy here.  Digging a pocket knife out of my jeans, I flick it open with my free hand; I've obviously been practicing.  I drag the flat side down her cheek, reveling in the panic in her eyes as she realizes what I'm about to do.

I pull the point across her forehead.  Blood pools in the creases and I stare in wonder.  My heart pounds to the rhythm of Stacy's screams.  We are creating our own morose music; I am the percussion and she the melody.

A prick of pain pulls me from my imaginings.  The vision fades and with it the smile of satisfaction I didn't know I'd been sporting.  My morbid fantasy has left me energized, a little aroused.  Is it wrong to be turned on by such gruesome thoughts?  I'm not sure I care if it is.

I look down at my hand and notice the sting that broke into my reverie was my new toy breaking into my palm.  The cut is shallow and beautifully linear – pain is replaced by fascination.  Seeing blood in more than just my own imagination is delectable.  As if to prove this to myself, I raise my hand to my mouth and lick it like a cat would cream.