The Seer

Author's Note: I initially wrote this short story for Apex Magazine's flash fiction contest. The subject? Optophobia: The fear of opening one's eyes. Alas, my story didn't get picked but my loss is your gain! Enjoy.

“Wait till you hear this, Doc. Brought you a real whack-a-doodle,” the medic said with a shit-eating grin.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh goody. Do regale me.”

“She walked directly into traffic—blindfolded—and nearly got flattened by a trash truck. Woman behaving erratically, they said. Got to the scene and she was cool as a cucumber. Totally cooperative until we tried to remove the blindfold.” They raised their forearm, showing me some oozing scratches. “She went totally apeshit.”

I blinked slowly. “Over a blindfold?”

They shrugged. “Yes and no. She had a medical alert bracelet with a doctor’s number, so we called to figure out what brand of Looney Tunes we were dealing with. Guy had a thick accent—German or Russian maybe—so I might not be saying this right, but he said she has a crippling diagnosis of…” they paused and wrinkled their forehead. “… Opt-O-phobia.”

“What-a-what-now?” I asked. At 4 a.m., my Latin was rusty.

They giggled. “She’s afraid of… opening her eyes! Can you believe it?”

I frowned. “Opening her eyes?”

“Yep. Wild right?”

I opened my mouth to answer but a shriek cut through the air.

The eye lady’s room.

“Tag, you’re it!” the medic said, heading off to steal snacks from the lounge. “She’s your problem now.”

“Love that for me,” I muttered sarcastically. Pushing the curtain aside, I saw the woman flailing about on the stretcher while two nurses stared. One held a tourniquet and IV start kit. On seeing me, she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head towards the kit, wordlessly asking, Want blood work? I shook my head. Not the time to approach with sharp implements.

The other nurse said, “She just started screaming—”

“Don’t make me, please!” the woman yelled, shaking her head viciously. She looked more put together than I would have expected. Clean capri pants, a nice button-down shirt, Sperry’s, and while her hair was in disarray, I could tell it had been washed in the last week. A maroon bandana covered her eyes—edges wet from sweat and tears.

I raised my hands to my chest, palms out. “Listen, no one is going to make you do anything. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re here to help you.” Pausing, I glanced at the nurses. What’s her name? I mouthed. Uncapping her pen, Joan scribbled and showed me the paper: Sylvia. “Sylvia, I’m Dr. Janes. Now, I need to ask you, why did you walk into traffic? Did you want to hurt yourself?”

Sylvia’s mouth twisted into a scowl. “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I didn’t say that. Are you suicidal?”

Surprising me, Sylvia laughed. “I ought to be but no, I’m not.”

“Then what’s going on?” I asked. I’d seen my fair share of psychotic patients, from either mental illness or drugs, and Sylvia wasn’t really fitting the stereotype. Other than the whole, terrified-to-open-her-eyes thing but I’d seen weirder shit.

Sylvia quieted and the silence stretched out. An IV pump sounded in another room and Joan excused herself. I fidgeted, tugging on my stethoscope.

“You really want to know?” Sylvia said.

I nodded, then realized, she couldn’t see me, and answered, “Yes, I do want to know.”

She sighed. “I see things.” How enlightening. She continued: “Bad things.”

“Bad things?” I repeated.

Her shoulders drooped. “When I look at someone… you promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

“Promise,” I lied. She was probably going to pull some Sixth Sense shit and say, I see dead people.

She paused. “I… I… see… how people are going to die.” Not too far off, I thought to myself, suppressing a smirk. “Always have. I didn’t understand it as a kid but as I got older, and people started dying in the exact same way I’d seen before… I figured it out.”

“Seriously?” Rachel said, still holding the IV start kit.

Sylvia nodded.

“Well… can you tell me how I die, then?” Rachel asked. I shot her a look. Not helpful.

Quickly, I added, “You don’t have to do that, Sylvia. It’s okay.”

A grim smile crossed Sylvia’s face. “You really want to know?”

“Yes,” Rachel insisted.

Surprising me, Sylvia’s left hand shot up and pushed the bandana onto her forehead. The skin surrounding her eyes was paler than the rest of her face. Her eyelids remained closed. “This is going to be the last time I do this,” she cautioned.

Neither of us said a word.

Sylvia opened her eyes, revealing pale blue irises that sharpened as they took us in. To me, she said, “You’ll die of a heart attack, very quick.” Not a terrible way to go, except she was clearly full of shit. She peered at Rachel and grimaced. “Your… husband.”

“What?” Rachel asked. Her voice sounded… strange.

Sylvia’s eyes closed. “He’s going to kill you. Strangle you to death.”

“What?” Rachel repeated sharply.

Another sigh. “See why I’m sick of seeing this shit? No one believes me. And I’m done with it.” Sylvia’s right hand materialized from under the blanket—clutching a gleaming scalpel. Oh shit, I thought, and I lunged forward but she moved too fast.

She buried the blade in her left eye.

POP!

Snotty fluid streamed down her face as her eye deflated in its socket. Wrenching it free, she plunged the blade into the other.

POP!

“Sylvia, NO!” I yelled.

A serene smile stretched across her face. “I’m free,” she murmured. “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

“SECURITY!” I screamed. Seconds later, burly men ran into the room and tackled Sylvia. Nurses followed, armed with syringes filled with sedatives. She didn’t put up a fight and was soon unconscious. I signed her out to my replacement, pending medical clearance for psych placement.

I took an Ativan before bed and succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

A text woke me: Rachel’s husband killed her last night.

I shut my eyes. Optophobia… no fucking wonder Sylvia lost it. I sobbed, ignoring the ache in my chest.