The Brass Eye

I pull up in my wheelchair, hoping to see something—anything—through the keyhole in my flat door, sitting there waiting for something, anything to happen.

I feel like I’m waiting for Godot.

 

The last person I saw was Susie.

It was dinnertime last night.

So I feel quite alone.

There’s no harm in watching, when I’m the one behind closed doors.

There’s no harm in watching, when it happens in the corridor.

The pristine—elegant, some would say—corridor beyond my door.

I’ve seen it all in time, seen the ups and downs of life.

Sometimes it’s drunk students, barely making it into their flat.

Other times it’s night shifters returning home from work.

I’ve seen arguments and fistfights. Birthday surprises and romantic gestures delivered.

I’ve seen all of life—and death.

Young lovers stealing kisses and more.

Broken engagements and the sweetest serenades.

A strong scent of bleach and other chemicals reaches my nostrils.

I’ve been waiting a while now, and before I decide to throw in the towel, so to speak, and call it a night,

I hear an awful din—

a horrific scream, like someone had the fright of their life.

Watching through the keyhole—the small, cent-sized window—

I sit transfixed by the action.

Who needs television, streaming, or doom-scrolling,

when I’m watching through my keyhole?

All black masks and balaclavas,

sharp knives and bad intentions.

Her screams and bangs echo on my neighbours’ doors—

unoccupied, or out at work?

Watching through the keyhole, transfixed by the action.

That dulled brass eye with a view to the world beyond my door.

It seems my evening’s entertainment is about to begin.

I wonder what’s in store for me today—

what the local amateur players will be challenging themselves with tonight.

Straight-up murder, or something more decadent?

I watch her try to run.

I secretly hope she escapes.

It’s more fun when they try to escape.

Because watching through the keyhole,

I begin questioning why I’m just sitting there,

watching the catastrophe.

The poor, defenceless woman—

being taken so freely,

without question or fight, quarrel or reason.

Make her pay the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They grip her hair, hold her in place.

They slice at her flesh, and my stomach turns sick.

They slash her throat, and I just sit there,

watching through the keyhole, transfixed by the action,

with no sense of action in my entire body.

As the blood pours and her screams grow laboured—just like the movies—I’m not involved at all, even as she tries in vain to fight for her life, hoping for a Samaritan.

I hope she finds one. Really, I do.

Though, just like the movies, I'm not involved at all.

Not really.

No... not really.

I sit there, in apathy, sweet oblivion,

watching through the keyhole as another life is taken.

I pray it’s the last,

but secretly know it won’t be.

And when another has been taken,

and brought to the chamber,

I will be right here again—

watching through the keyhole, transfixed by the action.

Now all I hear is silence—

silence followed by the muffled sounds of movement.

The players are resetting the stage, so to speak.

I roll back in my chair, back to my bed.

Lying there content, thinking about the girl—

who she was, who will miss her.

—

Then I hear that familiar rat-a-tap-tap on my door.

“All good for tomorrow?” I ask the silence behind the door.

“Yes, boss… of course,” comes the hesitant, puffed-out response.

“Excellent,” I say, glancing once more at the dulled brass eye in my door.

*

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