It was nearly midnight, and Sasha could still see the eyes on the walls of her bedroom. That is, they sprouted from every surface, more than ever before. They bloomed like flowers in a time-lapse, blossoming fast and full. Her instincts thrummed as if a dozen predators had ingrained themselves around her. In truth, they were just eyes. Eyes she could recognize if she tried hard enough. But they always unsettled her. She glanced at the pill bottle on her nightstand, then at the clock beside it. Half an hour to go.

Sasha had made the mistake of eating too late. Her psychiatrist warned her to wait three hours after a meal to take her medication. Last time she didn’t wait, the result was a collage of terror: fewer hallucinations in the morning but a night spent in delirium. She didn’t want to repeat that experience. The hallucinations had only gotten more frequent since then.

The psychiatrist explained that Sasha would only hallucinate eyes she’d seen before, like in a dream. The brain couldn’t invent details from a human face it hadn’t once encountered, even in passing. She’d gotten very good at recognizing faces. She always tried to avoid looking at the windows. As with any reflection, she dreaded seeing someone else’s eyes on her face.

A pair of eyes sprouted from the pill bottle’s cap as she spun it in her fingers. She recognized them: a classmate from math. Easy. A sprinkling of judgment, perhaps for a wrong answer.

What’s the matter, did your tongue materialize in the wrong room?

Sasha wondered if keeping the pills in sight was wise when she was so tempted to take them early. But she wanted to take them as soon as she could, exactly on time.

Closing her eyes or wearing a blindfold didn’t help. Whether she stared into a cloth or the eingengrau backdrop of her eyelids, the eyes appeared anyway, floating in space if necessary. She hadn’t told her parents how bad it had gotten. They’d gone out hours ago, perhaps expecting her to fail again. So be it. Their company wasn’t much better.

She laid down and stared at the ceiling, where a pair of eyes hovered over her. Her English teacher’s.

Who’s fault is it that your in here?

…

*you’re.

…

*whose.

She rolled to the side. Another pair bloomed on the edge of the bed. Her detention supervisor’s. She drew her fist back, curious to see if they’d flinch or react. But she stopped herself. Her parents had likely left to avoid scenes like this. She settled for jabbing at them with her fingers. The bed met her touch. The eyes didn’t blink until she withdrew, as if mocking her. Another pair formed on the blanket. She didn’t bother identifying them.

Now seems like a good time to go for a walk.

She left her room and headed for the kitchen. She realized she hadn’t even fetched water to take with the pills. She could dry-swallow, but the last time she nearly choked. She already felt the disgusting film coating her throat in anticipation.

After chugging a glass of water, she turned and froze. Her mother’s eyes had formed on the refrigerator door. She wasn’t surprised they’d followed her. Then, above them, her father’s appeared. A cluster now, like eyes on a single, silent organism. Rife with disappointment.

What? I wasn’t even going to reach in there…

Feeling unwelcome, she entered the hallway to her room. She didn’t own a watch (obviously) and couldn’t find her phone, so the only clock was the one on her nightstand.

Almost there, she figured.

The hallway plunged into darkness and eyes lined the walls with unprecedented speed. She broke into a sprint and crashed through her door. Only three minutes left. Her eyes were heavy. It didn’t matter. She could see everything with her eyes closed. Might as well shut them.

…

A flash. She jolted upright.

How long was I asleep?

She scanned the room. Every pair of eyes stared back, frozen. Acting like they hadn’t moved since she fell asleep. But they weren’t fast enough. Sasha had seen them rematerialize, as if waiting for her to return.           

She turned to the nightstand and groaned. Twenty minutes beyond the mark. Better late than never. Her skin prickled in response to the saturated room. Every surface was covered with eyes. Except the window. She avoided it, even in her peripheral vision.

With her mind teetering on the brink of collapse, Sasha snatched the bottle and swallowed the pills. No hesitation. All she wanted was to lie down. But the bed was covered with eyes. Her classmates. Her friends. Her parents.

And hers?

A pair on the pillow, resembling her own, wide with unnatural fear.

She stumbled away and landed hard. Rising, she accidentally looked directly at the window.

There, in the reflection, were eyes layered over hers. These weren’t familiar. Not in the way the others weren’t. These were deeply, definitively wrong. Alien. Invasive. They didn’t look at her. They looked through her.

I watched in horror as the unfamiliar eyes absorbed what little confidence I had left that the pills would save me…

Sasha clutched her head as she backed away from the window. Her body shivered with a sense of impending doom. Where was that voice coming from?

Where was the voice coming from?

She killed the lamp to erase the glare, then lunged toward the window.

I clawed at them, but the eyes didn’t move. They remained fused to my face, replacing whatever instruments preceded them. It had been so long since I’d seen my reflection, I couldn’t remember what my real eyes looked like, only that these weren’t the same. They stayed, pasted over my horrified reflection.

And there they would remain.

---

Christian Barragan is a graduate from CSU Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or editor. He has previously edited for the Northridge Review and MUSE Literary Journal. His work has appeared in the Raven Review, Across the Margin, and Caustic Frolic, among others.