Doll Crimes
It’s not there anymore, anyway.
Still. Even when my two normal eyes are open and I’m all the way here and all the way aware, I sense my black eye pulsing. It’s like an itch in the bone, this feeling. Rolling over, buzzing in slow circles. Like a wasp’s nest boiling in honey. Angry. It shows me blood. It sprays a stench of scarlet across people’s faces as they’re talking to me. It drags claws through their eyes. It hurts them, shreds them. I have to watch it like a psychic death-wish. Sick and surreal as a 70s horror film, like the ones that dude by the coast made us watch. I had to pretend I didn’t like them, but I did. What my eye shows me makes me feel the same.
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