Still the eye watched her.
Whispered.
How can an eye whisper?
She’d asked herself this question countless times, had yet to find an answer.
And still the eye whispered on.
About her.
Sighing out secrets it had stolen.
It blinked from its spot in the ceiling.
A glint of pupil gone and then back again. Watching.
She could feel its gaze on her body.
A nauseating, oily presence on her skin.
Like grease stains gliding across the surface of the water and collecting, unwelcome, on her extremities.
It made her want to get clean.
Bubbles popped on top of the water and the eye in the ceiling blinked again.
She felt the weight of it watching her. Unblinking now.
Staring.
How much did it see?
How long had it been there?
She remembered the burden of its gaze on her ninth birthday, winking at her through a cluster of shiny balloons while pizza was served to her friends.
She remembered sitting frozen beneath its gaze, a motionless rabbit too afraid to move and draw any more attention to herself.
A flash of white and gray in a field of green.
She remembered its presence, hidden behind a poster on the wall of her freshman dorm room.
Radiating its silent intent.
How much had the eye stolen from her over the years?
How much was it stealing from her right now?
Staring down as the warm water cooled and the leaky drain gurgled.
She slipped beneath the water, holding her breath as it closed over her mouth, her eyes, her nostrils.
The whispers from the eye were muted by the water. Sibilance silenced.
But the eye’s perception was unfettered.
She remained laid bare before it.
Her lungs demanded air. She deprived them of it.
Her chest heaved, fingers squeaking against the sides of the tub as she held her body down.
The eye watched, whispered . . . waited. Her body stilled beneath the bubbles. The eye, unblinking, watched. Whispered.
. . . Waited.
She broke through the surface.
Gasping.
Spine curved like a question as she coughed up water.
And still the eye watched her.
