When I was at Junior School I won the annual writing contest one year but my English teacher sneered at me as she handed out my prize in front of the entire school, announcing that - if it had only been down to her choice - my best friend would have won. My best friend's family, unlike mine was very wealthy and influential. Funny that. Sadly, both my best friend and I were mortified. As for my teacher, the bitch went on to disaffect other students and it took many years for me to regain any confidence. I'm catching up now - in droves.
The reason for this pre-amble is that Dorothy Davies has been an incredibly supportive influence in my 'rebirth'. (How dramatic! Please don't think I'm that far up my own backside). Dorothy's writing, whether the wickedly dark fiction and horror you have read here or elsewhere, or her fabulously well-researched historical novels - is extraordinary.
I have no more introduction to make, than a simple, but very profound thanks to Dorothy Davies for all her support, encouragement and bloody-compelling fiction.
Applause...
NOW I CAN SEE YOU
I heard the door open and the gasp of horror. I pushed at his unresisting chest and he backed into the hall. I sensed where we were going, pushed a bit more and he fell into the dining room, scrabbled to his feet and found a chair. Saved me the job.
I had duct tape in my pocket and, taking advantage of his shock, managed to tape him to his chair, only I did a better job of it than he had on me.
“Now,” I said, through teeth that were bound to be bloodstained – it had been hard biting through the tape – “let’s see how you like it!”
“I...”
“You what? Thought I would die, Mr. Optic, like the others? No such luck. You picked the wrong person this time. Where are my eyes?”
“Eyes ...”
“Those things you scooped from my head with my own spoon, remember? I want them back.”
“They’re...”
“They’re what? Eaten? Played with? Thrown to the cat? What?”
“In a jar of formaldehyde.”
“Oh. Right. Useless then.”
I could smell his fear, along with everything else. I must have been more horrific in appearance than I realised. He had let go of everything. And I do mean everything.
“Then you owe me some eyes, Mr. Optic.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why? That’s what the papers call you, isn’t it? You collect eyes, right?”
“Well...”
“You probably have some boring suburban name which matters not right now. I want some eyes. I’ll settle for yours instead.”
“No, please, I mean, let me...oh God, who are you? What are you?”
“Questions you should have asked before you tied me up and scooped out my eyes, Mr. Optic. Too late now.”
I had the spoon in my pocket, the one he used.
His screams were satisfying.
His eyes fit my sockets.
I stood back and watched the blood pouring down his face, just as it had mine, a few hours earlier. The difference was, I knew he would die.
I was about to walk out on him and his darkness forever, but paused to enjoy the moment a little longer.
“Thank you, Mr Optic. Now I can see you. I quite like what I see, too. That was for me and all the other women you mutilated and left to die. This should be a reminder to all you men who like to play murderous games... don’t mess with a zombie.”
_________ The End _________
