Deep Eyes

When George Stower’s body washed up on the shore, everyone was glad. He was a cruel man, with a temper like bubbling-hot iron and a sharp revulsion to the company of others. And he was possessive. We never saw Mary Ellen Stower without his cold, wary gaze a few steps behind. His wife was frail and meek, with deep, deep eyes that stole your breath away if you stared too long. Those deep, deep eyes described an animalistic panic, as raw and painful as a festering wound. Her pale arms showed dark bruises. Her husband’s face often showed scabbed scratches. No doubt her husband hurt her. So when George Stower’s body washed up on the shore of the lake, body bloated and oozing putrid water like the pus from an exposed infection, everyone was glad.

I was glad I killed him. But that’s a secret I’ll keep for myself.

Let me be clear, I did not seek it out. It was one of God’s supercilious ultimatums: to let an innocent die, or to kill a monster. George Stower was looking tired. His wrinkled skin pooled beneath his glazed eyes. Every move he made was slow and anguished except for the the incessant twitch in his right hand. When he bought two tubs of rat poison at the general store, dread churned in my belly, but soon settled into resolve.

I confronted him at the boathouse where he worked late nights, alone. He seemed scared to see me, at first. But his eyes drifted to the knife in my hand and his face twisted into that possessive look I've seen so many times, trailing the steps of poor Mary Ellen.

"You don't know what you're doing," he said, scrambling to his feet. His eyes darted towards the backroom, as if whatever in there would save him.

"You're hurting your wife."

George scoffed, but his shoulders slackened as if relieved, "You don't understand. It's for her own good."

For Mary Ellen's own good, I plunged my blade into his gut. The meat of his stomach pressed up against my hand as hot blood dribbled between my fingers. He stared at me with wide, surprised eyes and wheezed, misting my face with a red dew.

"You don't know what you've unleashed," he gagged, eyes bulging. I wrenched my blade free, and he toppled to the floor.

Sure he had drawn his last breath, I boarded a boat and tossed his body and my knife into the middle of the lake.

And when his body washed up on the shore, everyone was glad.

Everyone except Mary Ellen.

I would see her on the beach, staring into the murky depths that feasted on George Stower's corpse until it found its way back by the gentle push of the tide. Her deep, deep eyes were distant, and she never noticed me as I walked past her every night on my way home.

By her husband's death, I thought that she would be revived. But her skittish desperation only dulled, until she was but a flaky husk, as if only kept upright by the stale breeze. She was gaunt, her skin ashen and her hair brittle. But her eyes got deeper. So deep, that one's head would reel with a thready pulse, should one meet her gaze.

I couldn't understand. George Stower was dead. Why was she anchored to this lake? Why was she not grateful for me saving her freedom and life?

I couldn't bear it any longer. On a chilled night, my breaths coming out like fleeting spirits, I approached her on the shore. I touched her shoulder, and after a moment, she turned.

Her eyes even deeper. Looking into them was like staring down a never ending, half-lit well. I stumbled back, faint, and fell against the jagged rocks that speckled the sand.

I kept my eyes lowered as I gasped out, "What are you looking for?"

Mary Ellen stared into my face. And it hurt, like a rusted nail digging away at my skin. She looked back to the lake and the pain subdued to a dull ache.

"Strength," she whispered, entranced by the water's shimmering ripples.

"Your husband is dead," I told her, "You're safe. You're free."

"You say that with such certainty, that it's a good thing."

"Of course, it is!" I climb back to my feet and stand by her, still averting her eyes. "He was going to kill you."

Her gaze snapped towards me, like a whip. I flinched as the pain came back, hot and sharp. "And what did you do?"

I groaned, squeezing my fists against my head as if it would relieve the horrible pressure, "I...I saved you--"

"George was wrong about you," Mary Ellen said, her voice hard, "None of you are worth the strength."

Before I could even ponder her words, surprisingly strong hands grabbed my face, and bony fingers pulled at my eyelids.

"I want you to look at me," she said.

I couldn't refuse. I did. I stared into her eyes, and I wailed in terror and agony, as I struggled to free myself, but her grip held. Sticky wetness spilled from my eyes. I tried to squeeze them shut, but her fingers prevented it. Tears followed as I cried, and could not stop.

I fell deep into her eyes.

And that's all I ever knew.